Years bleach away the sense of things until all that's left is a bone-white past, stripped of feeling and significance.
Every end is the beginning of something else.
Nature allowed only the fit and the lucky to share this paradise-in-the-making.
That's how life goes on - protected by the silence that anesthetizes shame.
You don’t think ahead in years or months: you think about this hour, and maybe the next. Anything else is speculation.
When he wakes sometimes from dark dreams of broken cradles, and compasses without bearings, he pushes the unease down, lets the daylight contradict it. And isolation lulls him with the music of the lie.