The only thing shining is the monitor.
It's flooding the room with what looks like a cheap bootleg of moonlight, manufactured in some child-abusing sweatshop thousands of miles away.
We are looking at a picture.
A picture we wanted to have many years ago.
A picture we're glad we didn't have back then.
You reach for our chest.
You feel around for the gap.
The hole in me.
From that huge chunk I ripped off and gave away.
A piece we shall never regain.
A piece that will never be replaced.
But we live on.
We want to run away.
To fly away.
To go there.
But we stay.
And live on.
Ankou shall have to come another day.