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Do you think when the dirt falls over me it will know how much I craved, when the rot reaches the hollow of my chest that it’ll feel full in the way my happiness did. When the maggots crawl into my heart and make the flesh shift and spasm will it remember beating? Will there ever be a moment, roots growing through my brain, that their growth will hit some stilled crease and light it once more? That it will remember a life it never lived in the way I remember my dreams? I’d do it all if I never had to live it again, but nothing, not even rest, can last forever.