Tough.

Again, it starts off with me sitting here listening to the rest of you talk. But this time we're lazily sprawled on the grass. This grass isn't soft, and it's trying to penetrate my skin. Not like I'm going to let it. You're not as harsh as you think you are, grass. The rest of you are all complaining, inquiring as to why the hell I would want to sit here, and the bugs are annoying you. I block out your meaningless words. I like the grass, I like that it's not a fucking feather in a pillowcase.

Days later, I've dropped into my own little sort of fantasy world. I don't feel anymore, and I kind of like it. I'm not so sure where I'm going anymore, and I don't even know how to get to my nonexistent destination. I see my face getting softer and softer each day, yet I notice my features are becoming sharper than ever.

I feel like it's only a matter of time until our souls fall into the light and into the inexplicable bliss I know we have both felt before.

I feel like I've been able to sense your presence. I don't know who you are, but I know when you're near.