Found a goddamn art supply store today. No food, no meds, just pristine fucking oil paints and canvases. Sat on the dusty floor for an hour, smelling the linseed oil, and cried like a bitch. My hands are for swinging a bat and pulling a trigger now. They're stained with shit that won't ever wash off. But for a minute there... I remembered what it felt like to make something beautiful, instead of just surviving. The world's ended, but I think my soul might have died a little earlier. Maybe in that bathroom. Maybe in that cell. Fuck.