A touch of blankness on the heart is no friend of mine. And time will spread its wings and fly by and by and bye—goodbye. I've never known you still, and maybe I am shrill like the pitched farewells that many a soul will leave behind. There's no place for fortitude in a spiral reversing memory that won't last anyway, but anyway—I want to march through thickets and leave pieces of me behind, maybe those inklings will last through years like sands that refuse to wash away and they won't have to fly like time in erasing winds and say goodbye.