mostly nonsense

CXCIX.

Centuries from now, when a team of highly trained archaeologists haul out their shovels and pickaxes to dig their way through the internet, and come across the grey-dirt fossils of the self-image I’ve created out of html, the languages we crafted from acronyms and shorthand, the things we shoved out there into the universe, hoping desperately for some sort of permanence,

I hope they realize that what they’re really looking at
is a million different times you saved my life.

Shitty things happen, and I want you around. Isn’t that how this works? When I am at my saddest, my most terrified, my lying-desperate-on-the-floor, it’s you- no, not even you, just the thought of you, and the comforting things you could or will or maybe say- that quiets the voices of the dark things in the universe.

Don’t leave me.