The words flow from his hand to the page, coarse, unpolished. There was no boundaries, just another line, just another word, just one more punctuation mark. He was crying, the tears flowing down from his eyes as he writes his final message, as he looks at the silent body that will never make him blush again, that will never blush again. As he writes, the blood flows from the deep slashes at his wrist. Staining the paper, staining the table, staining the wood of the pencil gripped in his hand, as he writes those final words.