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Detachment gradually seeps beneath the eyelids whose gaze is twisted into percieving all that was once so lauded now in a light uncanny in its ability to ascertain the bitterness bore of the dismal and bleak absence of legitimate significance. The eyes flutter only to permit the mind to administer to itself its vital dosage of what must indeed be reality, and reality is without hope, without exaltation, without the radiance it once so beamed with and granted life meaning with. What catalyzed this despairing, morbid conversion? What wrested life's beauty and, in turn, the prizes of gratitude and astonishment for that now extinct but once thriving, intricate artistry?
The touch of another..had been the most astounding ecstasy. Its utter magic had cajoled the expectancy for its constant repetition and for it to incite only more enormous enthusiasm each moment it would again happen. Though withered has not only the expectancy become, but the joy as well. The anticipation fell as did the occurences, and the elation perished next for the fret that getting one's hopes up yet again would prove as virulent a mistake as it had before, for it must now certainly be recognized that everything is eventually terminated or does slowly discintigrate, and when the end appears, when the start and the middle have decayed and it is plain the speed at which all is dying cannot by any means be reversed nor paused, one must face the loss of their elation's source, and such a despairing task can have its difficulty diminished only by one having recieved less joy from the source.