Under the weight of the prolonged rests the peaceful disintegration of a name. What is your hope? It is feeling, oozing past reality to where experience suffers spasmodic fits. It is the long and sullen attaining critical mass. (The belief that) with a push from the other side, the anguish disperses and comes relief. Maybe this is where you find it. In the remembering. In the soothing. To mean, to suffer -- sister soldiers of internal discourse. To verily believe the unbelievable.
The irony of human suffering along the sliding scale: you are forced ever outward by centrifugal forces. The clarity and peace of the origin an irreducibly tiny part of your once effervescent nature. Breath now, the musty air of time everlasting. Taste the staleness of the fragile identity. And in awareness of yourselves, may you find the peace denied as you press ever outward.