In a world like this one, there’s nothing to do, but survive. You do what you can. And you do what you have to. If everything was always pleasant, the rain wouldn’t mean a thing. And every silver lining’s got a touch of gray.
But, in the end, words are words. And they can be forgotten. Or remembered even when they were never exchanged. Like smoke, words are swirling, hazy and momentary.
Memories are nothing but the stale scent of smoke clinging to your clothes.
It’s all you can do.