Isolated in a lullaby of seclusion, to what breadth have I been set to drift? Consequently, a distance equal to the hair grown upon my chin. That slow drip, sustained salt twisted through precious pepper, it became the final defense for a conquered soldier. Completely absent, was I to be pardoned for my surrender? After all, an exponential mind could not possibly disregard an endless reservoir of magical thinking. Uniquely, the driftwood of my forsake had run full circle, crashing widowerhood against what appeared to be a premature shore. It was there, in that final moment; utterly vulnerable, in which I stood. And then came you, glimmering grace through your kaleidoscope of hope; the girl with the dragon tattoo.

I wanted nothing more then to fill a thousand journals with boundless words of devotion, but Barcelona ended up a hair shy then what my dreams had pictured. The only essence that lies beyond the iron curtain now is faith. No more promises, just ideas; and ideas can be just as beautiful. Will we ever build the fallout shelter to our imaginary apocalypse? Self-numb in the lush of our own translucent exposure, then perish hand in hand? Alas my darling, we all have our crosses to bear. Mine stands slightly tilted towards the west, driven as deep as my word; pressed upon those very shores in which you found me.

Dusk is approaching, my sweet entrantress of the setting sun. Loan me your elasticity for just a little while longer, for I grow weary of bidding farewell to things I love.

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