Maybe one day the bomb will drop, and there will be no more celebrities or poets and no more useless jobs. If one bomb drops, the rest will surely follow, and never again will I have to add filters to my selfies to disguise my pale and blotchy skin, and nor will I have to worry if my words are losing their edge. There will be no more early starts at work or the struggle to give up smoking, and no more wishing that I was for real, but, the negatives far outweigh the positives, don’t you think? If the bomb did drop, I doubt very much if God would make a divine intervention and pluck it from the sky. Not that I’m much of a believer in the big man myself, but, y’know, if he is knocking about I think he would let us die out and give the planet a breather. Joking aside, it’s a serious concern, and it puts everything into perspective. What’s the point in dedicating my life to self-expression if power-mad rulers with bad haircuts are going to wipe me out? What’s the point in holding grudges if the end will come and just like that all our hopes and dreams will cease to be? If the bomb drops, the games we play will be as meaningless as crisp packets blowing in the wind. In theory, such an existential threat should bring us together. It should make us cut the crap and speak the truth, and yet somehow it doesn’t. Thinking of you as I type these words, I want very much to tell you how much you mean to me, and how every word I type contains a piece of your magic, and yet it won’t happen. Why? Because what if I’m left hanging? What if I’m left to feel small? Silly human. Silly everyone. Silly world built around bullshit instead of love. Soaking in the bath and listening to Elliott Smith, I cry because everything is at once so beautiful and yet so sad, and although it hurts, I don’t think I’d change a thing.