Almost. Luckily I smelt what The Rock was cooking or else there would have been hellfire and brimstones coming out of a big red machine. Phew. It's horrible. All people in the household were sleeping and I was at room as per usual doing anything that involves regret and malice. Dad's entire home-cooked meal became soup d'etat. Glad my sense of smell is still tremendously effective. I never would have imagined what it feels like to lose a home. They would have killed me right then and there and all the burden of the world would be on my shoulders, even worse a visit to the morgue. I swear sometimes I really hate myself for being a damn klutz. Woe is me.
Dark, darker, darkest, there is no difference. All hurts the same. Pain, everlasting, lingering. Pain, day and night. The hours are uncertain. Anything can happen now. Thinking about it hurts. Truth is unreliable. The romance is dead. My heart, it is lost. Unrecoverable, hateful, distrusting. Wishful, perhaps, but I have lost everything before and survived still. This one was special. So special. Embittered, the tip of my tongue tastes. The flavour of my life. Cuisine of kitchens unwanted. It burns, to the heart. I do not understand. I do not understand.