Days of pastel blues and lusterless reds could fill the inevasible blind pages to come. I see the splendor of my own antecedence, or rather the privation thereof. Once bound in a twirl of youthful folly now I marvel, can they not see?
I think they too, as I once, choose drunkenly, willfully to be ensnared by the false comfort of never‑ending youth; the pervasive: “There will be time”.
Though I have traveled many roads and stumbled on paths bleak,