And thus broke the seal… four somehow between seven and twenty-nine. The fountain had run dry, the drops on the windowpaine receded into that gutter of endless farce, the farce of routine excuses, so routine they had become subconscious Muses! They thus drip, drip into the wounds of past abuses, that sting of pain so confused, so misdirected… they fade into the fickle and capricious night undetected. She no longer appears – frenzied, aloof, in fright… as wanton as the blind to sight. Drowning in my dreams ever anew, this the goodbye. Sharpest pain of delusion, hurt – living the lie. The cursed forgot their misery long, long ago – that bane of promises was never intended to put on a show. But put one on they did, over and over, else the Supervisor would rampage. The cold flame of his ire was but an illusion… one she conjured up from remnants of memories of pelvic contusions. Winter, rebirth… there will come a crevice of hope. White walls, a surreal dream, a dose of comfort dope. Ribbons on the pavement point toward the delusion of renewal. The heads had yet to roll before the feet of the tribunal. They were too drunk to raise from their throne-like chairs. Yet they would jump in an instant to stroll through the cemetary in the cold December air. Thus spoke the winter of intent. Thus began the cycle of descent. So on they walk on their own path to the trial. So forth they dance on the precipice of denial…