I like winter. I like the sting of the frigid air hitting my face as I walk. I like the snowflakes accumulating on my clothes while I walk against air.
I wonder why guys have a perfect bleed out spot envisioned in their heads. You can imagine all sorts of ways you'd like to pass, but you pick the one where you're hurt and no one is around. I think about where I'd wanna die if it were to happen to me, but sometimes, I don't wanna think about dying. Some days, I think about waking, with no one around, surrounded by a vast sea of grass, and the light of a rising sun passing by my body. I don't want to remember anything about myself: not my name, the image of my face or the faces of my friends, nor the knowledge of the things that I have learned. That would be nice.
