Much like apathy in a loving embrace and hatred in warm such a slumber. Not I in my deepest of thoughts or most shallow of sights shall I wreak the havoc of an incomplete soul. An undetermined body. A man, lacking in personage. Not I.

Still my body may lay, though awash in emotive complexities my mind remains. From the world's forgotten martyrs to the sufferers of society's cold embrace, all of age seem to have a grasp on the emotion. Coming easy, supposedly. Taking hold, regrettably. Wringing the soul for all its worth, assuredly. Though however apparent may be its profundity, however wise may it be to keep avoidance, its eventual presence seems an imperative. An imperative to life. Not my life, nor yours. But life in itself.