A lengthy week and tears too few have marked this situation: time undone, a race not run, an absent aspiration. No half-assed tries at lullabies could make the years worth more. Flippant thoughts and fights not fought do all to underscore the days we spent in constant truth, and the days we only lied. We are, ourselves—closed books on shelves—, an audience denied. So take my heart and take my words, do with them as you will—hide them, chide them, or tear them up; I'll only love you, still. Try what you must, be what you can, and live the life you need. You be the flower, oh beauteous power, and I your withered ****.