Comfort sets ajar and creates vacant spaces for word and food for thought. Everyday is lived battling new faces for courage and the consumption from remnants handicaps the fit will of fundamental belief. Vital presence lionizes the overrated time, and time is always granted in personal favour, or not. This temporal comprehension of chronology is a permanent scratch of age, of beauty, of joy, of peace, and of all their oppositions. Just as suffering is avid, overcoming is its nature's key, yet I am but a stranger of being part of nature. Conditioned to understanding foolishness like a snake at its prey, names and fond inclinations will someday turn back to be replaced. It is as if my requests, claimed with simplicity, has undoubtedly transitioned into an endless constellation of perplexities.

February has so much to offer, as it confirms proposals of losses. The world is oblivious to that because I am living this world on my own. Nobody will pain at the thought of February the way I do. Love is magnetic, as it is wishing to repel at positive reciprocation.

Your absence will be like an apocalypse, bitterly saddening and consistently tragic. Well, the clock still ticks. God doesn't listen much, to have displaced me in this messy calculation of 12 numbers, 12 months, 365 days, and that certain dilemma of 2 years. Because if He loved me, these are mere slip-ups between me and the people who have been condemned.

The choice was not mine and never was mine to make. This arrangement is not out of my will or enthusiasm, it is just life for me.