The end days were endless. 

 The crow sat on a branch above the creek on the western shore judging us and letting the world know it with his loud and incessant cawing. 

 Everything has been said so it now comes           to           you                  it. 

                                                                      down      how          convey 

                                                                                             

                                                                                              

 They complained about the weather while half a world away bombs rained down. 

 Every time a panhandler asked him for money, Barry vacillated between his inclination to help the less fortunate and his aversion to being considered an easy mark. 

With a single word, their world was wrecked. 

 Circumvent expectation at your own peril. 

Sometimes there really was nothing left to say. 

 "Don't compare yourself to others," Donna's famous and fabulously wealthy cousin told her during a phone call between waitressing shifts at the greasy spoon.

Gary loved his dog more than his girlfriend and they all knew it. 

 Sylvia had always looked forward to hosting parties, but now she looked forward to the moment the last guest walked out the door. 

Hands on a keyboard had become her life. 

We will eventually arrive at the moment when memes make the TLDR list. 

 The older Oliver got, the less inclined he felt towards spontaneity, preferring to plan out every detail of his day from sunup to sundown. 

 Forlorn yet full of hope, she swiped right one final time. 

 Fortified by ill-fortune and cheap wine, Frank swaggered through the night like he finally owned it. 

 Toe-tapping to the music in her head Helen always had a tune to tune in to. 

They banned and burned, chipped away and chipped away, but yet the truth, even if it was brittle and blackened at the edges, remained. 

Celebrity culture is slowly killing us. 

 All we ended up with was the dystopian part of the science fiction genre with none of the cool gadgets, like flying cars. 

Behind the curtain there are only ones and zeros. 

 The untitled draft was his epitaph. 

Padding in stocking feet like a cat on the prowl, she slipped out of the house once again. 

Pete's long game was so protracted he died decades before his plans could come to fruition. 

 "Treat work as a game, life as a hobby, and love as a loaded gun, and you'll do fine," my uncle advised me that hot summer day when I had my first taste of beer. 

 Over the next rise, the road revealed an unimaginable vista so wild and wide it took her breath away. 

 The twisting alleyways, cobbled and cracked, led to darker places and deadends. 

The shifting ground beneath their feet made for better dancing.