it's about death

it is.
I thought it was about love,
but that is why I can't stand it, why I want to run away and hide, it sings of death, as it reaches to sing of (for) life.
What a horrible scene I am writing. Not so much writing as merely typing it in, how unhappy I am to see it goes on longer, and I must type through another page of this part.
Sh*t! I just looked on ahead to encourage myself with what comes next, and more of this comes next (3 1/2 more pages)
"No, you can't skip ahead and write a different part. Finish it now, then you wont have to make it part of tomorrow"
It's going to give me sad dreams.
"yeah, well, that is why you were supposed to work on it this morning"
I hate this story
I love this story
I hate this story
I love this story
"
"
"
"
I thought this story was full of sugar coated butterflies
it's filled with everything dies
"Yes, but isn't it pretty for that moment in time, when they are here, and you are here, and you get to watch them. As you flutter and fall, and they flutter and fly, a field of butterflies. Now go back to death. It will be worse if you stop here, part way through, it will sing and reverberate through you, finish, so you can move on to the next song."