Everything as planned.

We are destined, I think, for greater things. Yet youthful jitters rarely fecund. My thoughts stalk and my fingers enable. The 21rst century's version of suicide. You asked me once, "How is this all meant to end? "I whispered back casually, "With unfinished texts and emotional drive-bys" You smiled back and with intonational precision jeered: "Bring it on. I'm ready."