This was in my head.

This was a random paragraph formed in my head. This has no particular significance anywhere except in my mind. But i felt like sharing it, so here it is.

We ate pizza on the night she died. The same thing we'd eat on nights of celebration, or birthdays. Maybe it was because no matter what we cooked, it would not fit the depression of loss. Or maybe, it was that we did not want to cook a food that would afterword always remind us of her death. Pizza has too many memories to hold it against one sad memory. The more i think of it, the more i realize how much a perfect choice pizza was. Either way, we ate pizza on the night that she died..