I am the hedged question put to a bland catalogue. Perhaps there is no right to expect anything more than diluted answers.

The rose buds are falling off, a bell tolling in silence, an uneasy clock slowly sweeping fairy dust with its bare hands.

Soon the paint will dry, congealing thick and fast on the brush tip it has never left. It is pungent as a rotting flower.

Watered-down doubt flowers, its roots grazing my conviction. I fear the simple answer will undo my seasoned justification.

There is little good in ex post defibrillations. Ambulances are not made for chasing after Frankenstein fairytales in various reincarnations.