We are rejecting your calls. We are writing your words and having your sex. We are stealing your futures away from you while you sleep, while you roll around and trap yourselves in your sweaty sheets. We are taking your photos and climbing your trees. We are drinking your beers and thinking your thoughts while you are out designing dresses. While you are wishing you were us.

We are hitting your keys.

This is the story of us. A generation. Aware of how important the present is but paradoxically, because of this knowledge, one of the first to be truly unable to do so. This. THIS is the story of us. How we attack our projects. How we feel no remorse at our own wastefulness. Because we know we are the last ones. We won’t prepare your planet for your grandchildren! Because we know it’s so close to over. We love that we are wrecking it. We love that we’ll be here for that last crash, those final concentric circles of collapsing dust. We LOVE it.

This is the story of a successful but pointless entrance into a wonderful life. This is the happy story of a girl. You relate to her more than you expect to. Even though you are older. Younger. Dumber. You like her. You see her confusion and it amuses you, just as it amuses her, along the way.

She sips, she reminisces.

Photo by: Hashmil