They were all dead. Love kills. Did I love her? Was there a choice?
The past is a gaping hole. You try to run from it, but the more you run, the deeper, more terrible it grows behind you, it’s edges yawning at your heels. Your only chance is to turn around and face it.
But it’s like looking down into the grave of your love.
Or kissing the mouth of a gun. A bullet trembling in it’s dark nest, ready to blow your head off.