Like punching a clock, time serves to repeat the same monotony… drowning in deciduous despair you fought so hard to avoid. Night falls and with it a haze that partially obscures your view; your misrepresented mirage of self. The tank of enthusiasm lies empty, spurting droplets of hope. You feed on such agony though there is an inevitability in Aral’s venture. Steady on, we say the heart should beat on but for what of life’s satisfaction? Gold in one palm is dirt in another, though no blunders can occur through blind serendipity. A night so close serves to peel back at the vestiges of man. Strike the bell of life, ensure the chime is right and bloom against those who seek to temper your storm.
