Impressions of bittersweet nothingness floating in an empty room. Let us breath in this colourful air- there is no core, no certainty, no underlying principle- let us cease our restless tussling. Time continues its frantic journey; we're dragged along, and little else seems to matter.

Inspiration drawn strainingly from the absence of a certain ghostly presence. Now desire has faded, even stubborn persistence has begun to wield, I fear my river of words will gradually run dry. Already mourning for them, my sleepless nights of longing and frustration, the melancholic mornings of depth and solitude and harsh painful realization.

Mental labyrinths born of infatuation, boredom and scepticism; their loss regrettable, nonetheless. For anguish remains always preferable to apathy, and we are naught without our brief moments of ecstatic, all-devouring insanity.