When I first met him he'd been spouting a lot of psychosomatic bullshit almost all the time-

laughing loud and boisterous, flicking the ash off his cigarette without a care but yet so much weight upon his shoulders-

back in those days he had a catty grin and glowing eyes that would tint back melancholy-

so cynical and bitter, ready to dismiss anything-

but for a while in that hopeless time you'd find him in the library-

dressed all in black with his hood over bright hair and his neck bent forward-

poking, prodding, searching for hell knows what-

and when he couldn’t find the answer in those books he’d look inside himself, to his emptiness, only to find silence-

I really thought that if he wasn’t spouting all that bullshit-

he'd have been sobbing-

but he couldn’t really sob because he didn’t have emotions, right?

A nobody? A sinner? His indifference and apathy hurt more than rage-

and all I remember is that even if he was a nobody, a nothing-

for a little while he smelled like old paper and ink and hope-

then crashed-

and he’d tell me to go to hell and I tell him I’m already there.