It creeps all over you like a dull ache - think of all the things your hands could make. It pulls you to the ground, like soaking wet gloves, the change in your face when anger shows. In that moment you realize that something you thought would always be there will die... like everything else. These thoughts I must not think of, dreams I can't make sense of, I need you to tell me it's OK. These thoughts I must not think of, dreams I can't make sense of, I need you to tell me it's OK...