It’s 3:40 in the morning. I set out to light a candle's wick and ended up igniting a bomb's fuse. I wanted it to glow, not blow.
Nonetheless, the danger of it all is simply intoxicating. No wonder I can’t sleep. The radioactive fallout is captivating: shiny and unstable and unlike anything I've ever experienced. And it is doing what it could be expected to do – irradiating the bad to a slow and certain death, but also taking more and more of the good with it with every storm. And, fuck, these last few days it was raining down in slick, wicked sheets.
But how much am I willing to sacrifice to shed the old, the bad? How long before what’s new, the good, turns into a target of my resentment? How long can I keep manufacturing squalls of this sparkling, black, atomic stardust before I completely burn the fuck out? I'm not sure if its creation is worth the effort. I can't even tell if it's priceless or worthless at this point.
All I know is I'm exhausted. And I've lost.