It's rare you get to make it up here. You can see half the city from where you are just now. You can see the eclipse. You can see the sun being covered up, the sky making ready for night.

You can see the tears in the sky, the rips of nothing slowly being healed. New ones will appear. They always do. They heal. They tear. The sky is constantly being created and destroyed and that's what you think is beautiful. Not the dance of the sun and moon around one another in their circuit across the world. You don't tell anyone.

It reminds you of yourself.

The tears try to make room for themselves. In a moment they're there, a rip torn in the green sky, and then, just a short while later, healing up, fading, gone. Blotted out. There's no room for it in this world. There's no room for you in this world.

You'll disappear someday soon. The sun and moon will continue to dance and no one, no one but you, will care when the blot of Nothing that's you is wiped out, erased. Hardly even forgotten--who had even noticed it in the first place?

No one but you.

You want to tell the rips in the sky you'll remember them. You hope others will do the same for you when you've been removed as well. You're a blemish. A blemish, a distraction.

You're going to die someday.

They'll make sure of it.

Good, you think.

Good. You deserve it.

Good.

Tell yourself that, over and over.

You deserve it.

Look away from the sky.

You deserve it.

Tell yourself it until you believe it again.

You deserve this.

You deserve this.

You feel yourself start to cry. Good. Good. You deserve this. Stop hoping. Stop thinking. Be nothing. You're nothing. You're filth. Filth. Filth. Filth. Filth.

You deserve it. Filth.