It’d be easy. It’d be so easy. No more Grim. No more faggot. No more thunderstorms or sugar-and-smoke kisses or the city’s unwanted dead. No more whiskey voice talking about a fit, like he had a single fucking clue what a monumental achievement it was to get out of bed some days. No more feeling as if being alive were akin to a hospital flatline. People don’t want to know what makes them uncomfortable.
