I spent my life wishing when, that spell whistling at my heart. A tug, a tear, and all the frosty drag it holds. That bitter cold a balm that numbs, and reflecting that a feeling is more than some quiet alone. I accept that ever after is nevermore; these things ourselves tell us that then shed rhythmically asunder. Each beat is a probe. Our heart, it's faithful prole. And tomorrow, as well as all to follow, will the frigid beg for friction and I beg alike?
There is a moment after the moment when all reside with self. The excuse that enervates wanes under its own gravity. And all the compulsion that sells evaporates like the joy of so many fleeting beats. But this life, judged always and everywhere as if chosen, is not joy in form. It is the catharsis -- the release of the unwished for and eternally unbecoming. Watch even as they wield the grand attempt, so unobservant where the passion spreads thickly. Curses! For the moment after the moment when the energy that enervates dies its trivial death.