Die alone.

The storm outside was blasting the life out of the ground. Something seemed different. The sky looked furious. The zephyrs seemed to snap at the sun. The storm called me to come outside. People were dying. The sun said to me, "You must be a masochist for thinking I could love you. Invest in some bandages."
I shut my door and went to sleep. Because who could ever love unlovable me?

Outside, the sky raged and fumed. It cast down angels and raised demons on high. Rifts split open and time melted.
And I began to wonder if love was alive. A lie.

The angels began to sing hymns of hate ad nauseum. Holy chants had never felt so blasphemous.
The storm began to fester and seethe like an angry wound that rolled in from the sea.
I woke up from my slumber and looked outside. People were dying. I laughed. But no one laughs at God. Not even angels.

I sat down at my desk and opened a letter.

A letter to my future self --

Your past self ripped down the heavens and tore the clouds asunder to fix you.
And though I can't know for certain how it all turned out, please remember, we were created with the intention of being happy. Not to watch the world wither away to dust. So please, be happy. For me. For you.

I tore up the letter and fed it to the sky. Maybe it's better if I die alone.