It seems that I will continue to be burdened by these memories of her. Though she is gone, I still see her face, her name, everywhere.
Cruel is life that it taunts me in every waking moment, and even my dreams are not left barren of bad tidings. I long for the release from these images and dreams, but it seems that whoever is writing this prose thinks it prudent to commit to the whole arc. I don't know if there is anything waiting at the end. All I know is that I am just waiting for that day to come.
No more are there days that greet me with joy, no more are there days that fill me with hope, no more are there days that grant me renewed vigor or longing for tomorrow.
I wish to forget, to stop seeing her face in the reflections, and to stop seeing her name jump out from the pages like some sleeper-cell phrase.
I want sleep, but sleep hasn't come. O' merciful life, if there is a voice or ears to listen, grant me quick passage.
Grant me the sleep that I crave, so that my memories of her will cease to taunt me.