"A beautiful spell"
You could write a beautiful spell if you wanted to. And yet what remains is the image of the spell, left behind by the remnants of something that was there before. It couldn’t be this:
Later, that night, he took his own life by the gun. It was the logical progression of the image. Someone posted his death on a public forum. It was circulated by clicks that had no source. People moving through a space, seeing the remains, taking a sniff and leaving. He couldn’t tell since he was dead, but they liked it.
Multiple likes like the one he posted once.
If nothing else, it helped to boost his popularity. The dead didn’t keep count, but he was set for life. The life after death after life. It could buy him dinner some day. No one knew what day it was, but it didn’t matter. Just moving through life as it was. And he was moving in another space anyway.
-Forget it, I’m dead.
This isn’t the right place to say things like that. But was it the wrong place?
It could be right. It could be wrong. He might have been the only person in the world who, before anything had happened, told himself that, well, it’s time to die. And so he did.
But when you die like that, people are bound to notice. Especially if you leave behind some writing like this. Which is then read by someone like you. Hence he goes away.
Every time you go away…
No one notices. It’s over, you say, it’s done with, I’m no longer here looking for your shadow. He’s like a disease. And if you pick up the phone again, I will fucking kill you.