It’s the blackened protrusion of nonexistence left by the final smoldering scream of a shattered star.
It’s the vivid escapism of collapsing into a world of light and noise after leaving the warm, comfortable darkness.
It’s the blur of shapes and newness that holds you, and warms you, and feeds you into a different darkness.
It’s the smell of smoke and nicotine that conjures impossible ghosts wreathed in familiar fondness or hatred.
It’s the midnight shame of new sensation.
It’s the ephemeral ecstasy of staring blindly into a perfect and dying window, which has been made empty and must be filled.
It’s the long, bright blackness of breaking in between the screeching iron, and jagged lights of two colliding masses.
It’s the same ugly lie told trillions of times over, so that we may one day believe it.