12
I’m the hollow man.
What was that stupid T. S. Eliot poem they made us read in high school? I can’t believe I remember it. I seriously can’t. I remember very little from high school, but for some reason, that poem is what surfaces now.
Because I’m a lovesick fool, I look it up on my phone.
This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper.
Yeah, that pretty much sums it up. No wonder that poem surfaced. It’s the same depressing bullshit I’m feeling right now.
It’s been five days since I drove away from Angelina’s parents’ house. Five sleepless nights. One hundred twenty hours logged in the warehouse, making everything goddamn perfect for Angelina.
Is it ironic that I still need to help her even though she won’t remember me? Won’t know why I’m doing it?
That I loved—
