Begotten thoughts of darkened chrome, where tears of diluted blood mimic thoughts of soft impermanent redemption. The quiet pain of yesterday haunts the heart as shadows in the night. The only thing more damaging than hate is indifference and neglect—smoking dreams, burning souls, a hush, and then the comfort of conviction and fortitude coalesce: forming a hurricane of rage’s restraint. To live, to breathe, to learn, and be; if there is any friendship to be had, a little amnesia will never go amiss. Those braying trumpets of Armageddon quake within the mind for a reason: they quake for recognition, waiting for a moment of dearest release. Indeed, we might tire; and yet, we persist not because we must but because it is what we do. If you know the reason why you smile instead of frowning, then you’ll know the peace to be found in learning that yesterday, despite the pain always clawing, is a memory only you control. I tell you in sad laden hope: when echoes of the future pose as memories, even though such recollections appear to defy causality; recognise the purpose of your strength, not because you are better than others, but because you can face your fears and fashion beauty; pain is but a lesson the soul teaches the heart in growing stronger, for no one with a past is ever truly alone.