Silence. It's freezing cold outside, and raining. Images of a reality too fragile to be taken seriously. Late-night drunken conversations with strangers lead to the realization that nothing is ever truly left behind. Memories wrapped in tattered excuses, carried in a worn-out bag that gets heavier every day.

Those mornings always smell of solitude and unfinished sentences. To mature is to replace your soft shell with an impermeable one. Behind the walls, your screams remain unheard. Wear the mask. Smile politely. Weave the tapestry of hope around you, climb the steep staircase of expectation again, even though you're destined to fall, for there is no other way to make existence tolerable.

Keep your head high, all is not lost as long as you can laugh and weep and dream and experience, as long as your eyes are wet and the blood runs hot in your veins, as long as you can touch and be touched, love and be loved, hurt and be hurt, as long as the world resembles a vast, terrifying jungle full of monsters, thrills and revelations.