Eternal echoes, said someone far more famed than I.
soil vesiculated through the grooves of identity. from where, once, one arose, caked between the edges- a ledger of time so spent the grace of decay, intended in the way has habitually happened- and praise be, to the utility, the non-emoted repurpose, the holy rot, made fuel, of which a fool thinks himself deserving
The trouble to remember. The trouble, to forget. The bouts with doubts of purpose. The self service sided to identify. The inconceivable whys.