Significance.

I'll be able to write but never anything that matters.

I don't think my thoughts have ever been profound. Life is just one long game of connecting the dots for me, point A to point B, point B to point C, and so on until my heart stops beating.

At least I can smell you in these sheets. The nights have been hot and your sweat soaked into the pillows and the mattress and I still wake to find little strands of your long yellow hair clinging to my face. Yellow hair and blue eyes. Maybe I drink so much water because I want to be drinking those eyes deep down into my gut and into my veins and into all the tiny wiggling cells that make up my body.

I'm writing, you see? But there's really no purpose. A few people might read it and a lot more won't and even if they did would it matter then? No. Not really anyway. Significance is fleeting. Stay or go, up or down, live or die. It's all the same.

Rain is sliding down the window and I can feel its irregular percussion pushing vibrations through the glass and into my head. I don't mind though, I kinda like it even. Don't you? The rain reminds you of your nerves and of being alive and washes everything clean.

I'm clean I guess. I haven't showered in a couple days but it's alright. The marks on the inside of my arm are finally starting to heal and there are different color medallions in a pile on my nightstand so I can pick them up and shove them in everyone's face that ever laughed and said it would never happen. So fuck you.

I could end this story by getting hit by a car or walking into the neighbors to pick up or becoming a Senator with shiny teeth in my television smile and a three hundred dollar haircut, but what does it matter? It won't, and I won't, and neither will anyone. But I'll just keep writing and if you'd like you can read and for just a moment we'll be connected and that will or won't matter.