Running from it, if I had to answer honestly.
Sweet, silly nonsense, dripping sacharine with memory and delusional promise.
The fluffy love notes of naive children that have never felt or injured.
Maimed or cried into a bloody shattered mess of whiskey bottle and tepid shower water.
An odd surge of raging bile, and a soft plunge in my heart.
The warm knife of a friend. Welcome like a well-mannered guest.
Or a handy neighbor with a fully stocked kitchen.
In my white, sterile, unwriteable suite in hell
they'll pipe this blissful dross into my head.