cycle of life
This drifts in, in its varying forms of emptiness... waiting beneath the obscurity of what I once thought to be. Ages like these, seasons which seem to draw on and on, force their way into me... they force upon me this sense of being whole. The pieces I loved so dearly pushed aside, and there's nothing left of what I loved. Nothing worth noting in the face of so many forgotten dreams.
Time can heal all wounds, and given time enough, one can see those wounds return. Fate carries itself in such circles, coming round and round and threaded back through the center... there is no end to this; there is no reason.