Til The Last Star Sputters

A washed-out model sees the world in black and white, not by choice, but out of habit. A dreary-eyed artist lives life in vivid color, but pays a heavy price. He is the sun, steady and blinding, and he is the moon, his moods shifting like the tides. They are selfish, and they are needy, and they are rotten to the core. They hate themselves and love each other and declare it with shaking voices that are so terrifyingly unsure. They hold their hands to their eyes, blinding themselves to the comet that is hurtling straight towards them as the clock ticks and ticks and ticks towards their final hour. Even the brightest of stars burn out eventually. The constellation of their love shines brightly, but the brightest flame is always the first to fade.