I am sitting at my desk and thinking of you dear C. The clock only blinks now, it's stories forever lost. I tried to repair it in the beginning, but the damn thing runs off of universal adm. It's the only accurate thing around here anymore. It blinks its frustration with the star that abandoned it, resolutely believing it can function without it.
It has been too long since I held you in my arms, yet I still recall the faint scent of your soap; the soft hum that was never far from your sweet lips. It is a travesty that I should remember all that and yet have lost you! You who are my reason for survival, how I wish it had not been so. Each retched day I spend here, plugging away until my inevitable doom, could be made brighter with but one of your quips, one lithe song escaping from sweet alto lips. But then you too would be gone. We would both be gone. It would all be gone, every stronghold of man, but we would be together in our grave. As the night draws her pall around me, her skeleton fingers growing ever closer, I wonder whether I would have preferred it that way. I don't need to wonder. I would have. Only a few more hours or weeks until fireworks, who is left to count now? Who is left who counts, now?



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