I don't know why you still talk to me. And I don't know why others don't talk to me anymore. Everything's different. Nothing's changed. Life goes on. Until it doesn't. But then it's too late to think. Thinking hurts. Maybe it's all just out of convenience and nothing else. I don't want to believe that though. But it seems more true every day. Every minute. Every second. Maybe it has nothing to do with you. Or maybe it has nothing to do with me.