The dead pull the living down.

We're all hunters in my family, you know. Deer, ducks_damsels.

And perhaps there is none, no morrow anymore, for one who has waited so long for it in vain. And perhaps he has come to that stage of his instant when to live is to wander the last of the living in the depths of an instant without bounds, where the light never changes and the wrecks all look alike. Bluer scarcely than white of egg the eyes stare into the space before them, namely the fullness of the great deep and unchanging calm. But at long intervals they close, with the gentle suddenness of flesh that tightens, often without anger, and closes on itself.

I must be happy, he said, it is less pleasant than I should have thought.

There would be no salvaging this. I was going to die a spinster with cobwebs feasting on my vagina, I just knew it.

Forgive me, God, for I'm about to sin like fuck.