softly, swiftly, silently going through this life, gliding by these events and flying by these people who don't care and don't know half the stuff that comes out of their mouths. their skin was as smooth with baby oil and they smelled of something floral and fake, and the look in their eyes screamed fabricated bits of hallucinated fantasies. you never were one for a show, and your will clearly read "cremate me, for it is only fitting that my physical body burn while my soul does too." you were always one for theatrics. you hated the drama but loved the gossip. you wanted to settle down and die young, live content and in peace, without judgment or sin. your hair was shaved, a disgrace, and your taste in people was a bit backwards and you lived a bit too much for such a short amount of time, but these people were all so worried about their own lives and how they would never achieve your level of greatness that they tried to compress you into their cookie cutter, perfectly sculpted version of a diluted and medicated you.
