Riddles are abound

This is not a town anymore, this is a ingeniously devised torture implement where every fucking image, sound and smell reminds you: she's gone.
Dead in a second. Worlds collide. And you're burning.
Your mother told you would burn. You didn't believe. You did believe, though, that you'd die first. Nope.
You still hasn't got a clue.
She's gone, she's history, she's the only thing ever to make you afraid of diyng. And look at you now. And from where you're standing, hell seems so sweet.
Blab all day long, mingle, drink, drug yourself to oblivion, get laid, create, gig. It doesn't matter.
Fight for her, long for her, blame her, ignore her, forget her. It doesn't matter.
Better get yourself a new life altogether, a parallel world where she's never be. It doesn't matter.
In the end, nothing really matters anymore.