It’s like you’re standing outside your home, watching it and everything you’ve filled it with burn to the ground before your very eyes. Everything you’ve worked so hard for all these years—all those memories and all those dreams—swiftly incinerating into smoldering soot, and all you can do is wait and see. Maybe, if you’re lucky, they’ll arrive just in time to douse out a few final flames, and then you can dig around and see if there’s anything left except soggy ash.
Me, I’d rather just pour gasoline over the whole goddamn mess and get it over with already. Leave not one fucking trace, not even eyebrows. They’ll grow back.
And so will you.