[ WP ] Write a story where each sentence has one more word than the last .

Dead. 
 
 I'm sure. I must be. Nothing else makes sense. There's no other reasonable explanation. 
 
 `` I do n't have a stunning physique. I do n't have enough money to live... I do n't have the goddamned equipment for you. All I've got is all I've ever had; personality. But a sense of humor does n't count for much anymore. I can navigate a conversation like Sully on the fucking Hudson. I can make people forget who they are and laugh in despair. And you, can make me forget who I am without a single word. It's all so meager, the vestigial things I have for you, the effervescent adornments. Every sigh, every crooked smile, every stupid joke I'll ever force, you take smiling. Every half-assed, needlessly introspective, silly attempt at affection, every sweaty palm, every nervous kiss, reciprocated.'' 
 
 `` And?'' 
 
 I paused. Then: `` And what?'' 
 
 `` And, what's the point? You thought I was superficial?'' 
 
 Have I clumsily stirred placid waters? I pondered the details, and slogged on. 
 
 `` Are you saying that you're prettier than me?'' 
 
 He laughed, or chuckled, or something, he saw me. He saw me, who I pretend to be and more. He sees who I mean to be, and it does n't matter. He reached towards me, and we melted together, we stood a moment. Staring into his eyes, holding each other so tight, I must be dead. There's no way on God's Earth that I have done anything to deserve this. I'm no saint, I'm no martyr, I'm not a fucking good example for my dog. 
 
 `` What?'' 
 
 I stopped. 
 
 `` What, what's up?'' 
 
 `` What are you thinking?'' 
 
 His brow was furrowed, watching. Watching my expression, watching my brain. I am too expressive, he hears me. He can see my thoughts in my face. He's smiling now, as I struggle to explain myself. As I choke on all those stupid, clever, funny words. My soul, my love, my meaning, how they crinkle and crunch! How they flutter away, these dry leaves falling, these notions of self. He is like the breath of winter, the cold wind, the blustering truth. A gentle snowfall, a biting gust, a reminder to the Oak: we will fall. We will melt and die, but I will have your facade as I like it. 
 
 `` Stop!'' 
 
 I stopped. For a moment. He took my hand. He took my last leaf. 
 
 `` Calm.'' 
 
 I tried. I felt dizzy. The world's spinning faster. The sky could take us. 
 
 Would it even matter? At this point? What matters? 
 
 Us?
