Rattle Tattletales
I. Prologue
I write this from my grave.
There is nobody to save us. We are already ghosts here, bearing the weight of memories, regrets, lost hopes and dreams. All the heroes have killed themselves, are trying to kill themselves, or have already been killed.
Yet across these hollow sockets memories flicker. The sweetness of names still linger on our rotten tongues. Past laughter continue to pelt on our trodden skulls like rain. The doom and gloom of happy days — our blind faith, our ignorant youth — flood these long-spoiled lungs.
We have all been fools.
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