Night it is, aye, and this day has been spent in a chaotic void of too many nothings.
There isn't much to report save silence, which is the new talk in this house. No attempts to assuage this shortcoming, and in fact in hindsight, it'd offer no surcease.
So here I am, tucked in cold folds that shall soon warm up, it is after all fabric, not a heart.
In a cold sludge of ambivalent existence we swim, or rather try to keep our heads above the swamp, lest we drown in hideous murky waters of our own making.
That white flag now lies smeared, tattered from overuse and ashamed into redundancy.
If there are tears they are only wrought on by frustration not pain, and that is indeed pitiful.
What keeps us from sawing through these frayed strings that're more of a make-believe bond meant for show purposes only. A fraudulent sham, a glitzy fabrication of flawless crystal that's shattered beyond repair within.
There isn't a super glue in this entire universe that could stick these cracks anew.
Here's hoping for sunshine to pass through soon and light it up like a kaleidoscope.
One would sooner pluck rubies from trees.
Sardonic, yes. Optimistic, hardly.
Ah. Night always brings the observant in me. What can I say.
Sigh. Hearts.
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