count the claw marks on the inside of your coffin lid before you finish digging your way out, and record that number for future reference. because, one day, you will have a weapon in which this ammunition will fit. one day, your arsenal will coalesce, and your aim will be sharp as a fucking sniper.
scratches up the arms, like claw marks, from stress unwanted. initial good deed thwarted and, ultimately, sacrificed to the deep dark chasm of social cynicism.
yet, someone, somewhere, is taking aim...
and not pulling the fucking trigger.
Now,
think about all of the triggers not being pulled, and all of the bombs not detonated.
think about the children at home with the words "mommy" or "daddy" hanging upon their lips, like sweet milky dreams.
think about us, as if we were all a big fucking family. all together; all capable of the same loss.
really, just think about it.
I'm an asshole, and I do.
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