Stone-cold sober clarity of thought occurs as time grows more open about it. Its departure is slow but still never faltering. Each and everyone of you has arrived safe and sound…

...within a revolting… *indistinct ironic comment*.
I cannot dwarf the realm of it, cannot break the stultifying grip of it, of its transparently ethereal face, a "good old" dyed-in-the-wool malady. Dazzling. The malady that cannot be named, recognized or something. Perhaps it's in the untold jokes, in swirling around until you are dizzy, in mayday sunshine over the hill - a sugary plate on which our school, a cupcake, stands. Yet it's in the eyes, in suburban wars, in falling woods, in unmurmuring drifting then. It's at every flight of the staircase with neither a beginning nor an end, at every step of the ladder we take, every breath we occasionally make. How careless. An unparalleled junction that cannot be passed unless we dare claim external evidence. A tricky curse within an aure of an omnipotent riddle.

-

"...A moaning in copper beeches is heard, of regret, not for what happened, or even for what could conceivably have happened, but for what never happened and which therefore exists, as dark and transparent as a dream. A dream from nowhere".
J. A.