And what of this world, and the people? I fear I've far too reclined into myself that is not made of blood and bones, but of gushing apathy, and of yet-fermenting empathy. There is too much inside, and too little outside. This wardrobe of militant heartstrings tugs, and pulls, and I don't know which way to look.

They ask me, why I preserve so vehemently memories, and postcards of my past. How do I tell them, this anxious, restless mind seeks uncertainty, seeks insecurity, seeks this thrill of feeling, that my stagnant present is weary of. How do I tell them, my tempest, rotten backyard; a burial of all things dead, makes me feel more alive than my present, so plain and simple.