At the heart of it all there’s always a bruise, a dark spot, the irrevocable mark of a sadness too deep to cut out, everything else is just an afterthought, a collection of Band-Aids to enswathe the swelling rot, to conceal it all while we desperately search for a cure, and I suppose the aspiration is to amputate the gangrenous limbs and enjoy some semblance of reality before our veins go black with eternal sleep, but under the ubiquitous pressing, ours is a shade without exit. Take a deep breath. End of line.
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