Old

Before, all before- it's all been done before. The heartache, the tears, the deathwish, the depression- all of it heard, all of it seen, all of it lived in a million ways in times gone past, in memories turned to dust.

Old, its all old, all of it- every sigh, every wistful look towards the stars and the moon, every irregular beat of the heart. I have nothing new. I have nothing to say to you that hasn't already been said by millions of other people, a million times before in little stories that have happened before us.

And that cheapens it. It does. Don't lie to me that it doesn't, because I know, you know and every one else already knows how cheap and tawdry this thing is today, how lustless and old. How interminably boring. I know.

So goodbye.