There are days when fortune's taciturn smile shines like a razor, she begs the whole of reality's wonders to bleed profusely on the insignificant personage clinging to its threadbare fabric, and it is on those days I feel as if I could die a happy death.
Today is one of such days. I want to kiss every molecule in feverish desperation to say what by law of language and tongue is impossible to say. And after all, what words are not swallowed by oblivion? They are as the cache of time, the quantum gifts that waste away all past, present and future, or at the very least the notion thereof, their wiles made neutral by its inherently entropic flow, but a tragedy by human examination, but I digress.
To love truly, whether it be life, person or circumstance, is to begrudgingly accept the truth: that it is not always possible to say, and what one cannot or may not say, then one must pass over in rapt silence. I dare not even call this joy, I dare not even sully or betray the dizzying reality of it all with my feeble words because the instant is near and gone without so much as a notice, what once was no longer is and to speak of it would be to grant it burial when such a notion has barely even lifted its sympathetic fingertips from my countenance.
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