Begotten thoughts of darkened chrome; 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 all remiss. 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. To have tired is not to fail; and yet, we persist not because we must but because it is what we do. Learning yesterdays, 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 darling jaded strength. To face your fears and fashion beauty is but a painful lesson the soul teaches the heart in growing stronger. No one with a past is ever truly alone.