Should conviction stay still and unchanging, I would have sat here silent as the world sheds in its anthropomorphic nature. But it is difficult, as all convictions are and the lines are fading. Mind—divulging—sorrow—wasps— There is temporary quiet for now, and absence is noted; the heart is absent. Could things be any better, any worst or the same? Like same is same on an early afternoon, where the walks are bitter and archaic in defiance, and feelings languidly pass as fingers mount on chapped knee caps. Time becomes an interval where my grasp is weak and the soul is meager, like daylight trying to break free.