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Gold may gleam, but it doesn’t stand the test of time. It wears down, loses its luster, becomes nothing but a needy, malleable surface with no durability.
Time changes with torment. It stretches on, lengthening seconds, extending minutes. I’ve learned that pain and fear have a way of prolonging. And as if that weren’t cruel enough, our minds make sure we relive those moments again and again and again, long after they’ve passed. What a bastard, time is.
“We’re all captives of something, even things we don’t want to admit to.”
“I hope you burn so bright that you scorch your Golden King down to ash.”
Did I think he was beautiful before? I take it all back. He’s an ugly bastard.
“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “things need first to be ruined in order to then be remade.”
“Kindness shouldn’t have to be earned. It should be freely given.” Keg laughs softly. “My ma used to say something like that,” he replies, looking over at me. “And you know what?” “What?” “She was a damn smart woman.”
“If you tried, you could shine brighter than the fucking sun. Instead, you’ve chosen to sit back and wither.”
I’ve been bending over backwards for so long that I forgot I even had a spine.
