nash

sinister is this place so destitute of the hope that fate brings us. a serendipitist, you could call, a pragmatist, only before a fall. lift me off this shrinking ground, it swallows me up - no hesitation. until it all pauses, a lull. a moment of anguish, might i say, quiet anguish. internalised before the crass shreek of the hand moving onto the next second, minute, moment. they say reason, rationale, logic it all is. no. it is the sequence not anyone could solve. it is this random sequence of moments tossing catharsis into catharsis that defines a retrospective phrase, "it was meant to be".