Twenty-four of the longest days through a twisted trail of no relent. She was on the wrong plain. She could not hear the cries in the middle of the night to not get on that train. Oh, the irony – on those tracks of all her fears, the same torments on repeat, the same chaos preying on her tears. Loneliness, regret, dreams they had not realized quite yet. Memory is an incompetent guide, for it always remembers too late… experience shows its face only when twisted by Fate. Reality comes down in droves of pain, duality splits reason as desires to feign. So there we stood, on those rocks again… one side cold, depraved – the other warm, humane. Then everything went sideways… everyone forgot the dance. Life, beauty, happiness, calm, ration – now they do not stand a chance. So what then… whither from here? Nothing left to lose, nothing left to fear… hereforth go these tortured souls, hopelessly trying to fill in all those holes… of all the could have beens and almost weres… no more happenstance or halfway turns. The procession never leads to the fountain of youth… it only marches forth unwittingly to the plain of truth. The former forget substance or form, the latter find content in the storm. Not all among them reap what they sow… but they all feel the effects of the shrill wind when it blows. Perhaps the wind will swirl about the dust, perhaps this ends with the final judgement – trust. Neither lust, nor deceit… nor that spiral of lies ending in defeat. Look ahead and forget all ills…