It was like I was being burned down, burned down with the thick clothing of heaven. The cloak of destiny would fall upon the world when the white night swallows everything. Then I would reach for his hand. It was cold, and he pulled away, leaving me with unexplainably complete satisfaction itself. Perhaps the desire to grab onto something before this ended was it. The night I watched with you was truly blindingly beautiful. The grief turning into a dust, stars falling on the fools, and us dancing under the starlight where the red flashed on our heads soon enough. We spun round and round as if we were the pinnacles of the clock in the world. Touch without warmth nor contact, emotion without sincerity nor distraction. It was unbreathably comfortable but it was kindly suffocating. It was the "End" I brought. Even when I lost my breath, he watched me. As if a god had descended down to observe me -- the cold gaze never disappeared until I closed my eyes, sudden ringing of a clock on the clocktower echoing in my ears lastly.                                                                                  

I mustn't love him again.