Often, things are the way they are for a reason, and yet those reasons often mimic other things—another day, marks another year, but another moment, marks another possible tear. Purpose precedes motive, and yet intention precedes purpose for words and actions echo as loud as silence and inactions—memories of yesterday clouded those of another day, forgetfulness is easy until epiphany strikes for stars are meant to shine alone, not lonely, but alone. Yesterday’s final fading shadow no longer marks tomorrow—finally free of any beautiful melancholy, no wind upon the window of sorrow, merely another tomorrow free of any sullen memento. Some things are supposed to die, leaving graves as shallow as soil gone fallow—lost to the air, beyond prayer, gone without fanfare. Such things are just dust on the brightest, bravest past to be brushed aside where the weeds grow by the wayside past; some things are supposed to remain as things, buried and forgot for the remains of some memories are better remembered than sought again.