It gets better. You will not feel this inexorable poison flooding your veins for the rest of your life. It does get better. But then it gets worse. One day you’re feeling buoyant and happy and the next you’ll wonder how you’ll persuade your muscles to propel you out of bed. It will be as if the pain never really did leave you, but rather simply took a break to regain its strength. You’ll wonder where the fucking light switch is when you need it and you’ll wonder how in the hell people put up with you anymore and you’ll bury the feeling that you’re really actually dying underneath piles and piles of sweat soaked sheets smelling of sex and silence. And all at once, after the sex and the cigarettes you’ll never actually smoke and the room full of crumpled litanies, you’ll feel okay again. You’ll find solace in the scent of his skin on yours and the taste of the fall days rolling by in a haze of vanilla lattes and in the way you’ll fall into an idea, running for years with it clutched within your desperate fingers. You’ll be okay until you’re not. Savor your fall days and lattes and ideas. They’ll be there until they’re not.