Enter hell week. You're pressed for time. You're juggling deadlines by the tips of your nails. And you wonder about the seemingly terse monotony of it all. Wonder if somehow, by some brilliant stroke of fortuity you would find and trace the yarn out of the labyrinth that is your hell hole.
Yet in the paleness of this sordid milieu even the act of finding color is an uphill battle. Notice the grayscaled Hues of the world as they hurl their a posteriori's, their it-will-have-some-use-eventually crap like a broken record spitting diatribes in a parlor.
But still it remains elusive.
Like the solitude of your dreams.
Like sand, bereft of water, as it slips through your fingers and into itself once more.
Like the traces of our past and the meaning of its lore.
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