burying the dead.

a camera flashes to reveal birthday cake and shattered glass in the same still frame. smiles lie. so do tears. the truth is unbearable. things are not right. no matter what anyone says, no matter what anyone does, no matter how strongly anyone feels or hurts or cries or bleeds, things are not right. they can't be fixed. lives are disintegrated into pieces more numerous than the stars, and once again blown about by the cruel north wind. this time the pieces are too far apart to be retrieved. it's too late. the end has come. and so she sits silently at the bottom of the stairs, listening to the dead bury their own dead, and waiting for time to begin again.