If I were to stop this rage overtly taking the insides of my brain, and I am almost at my wits end, then perhaps I should put to flight the mourning doves to frighten their delicate wings, amidst the bashful stream—of its meek glory.
 
If I were to appear stout, I must not be distracted by their cooing—'tis best to avert my gaze, and then I shall be fine, undoubtedly.
 
And if I say I cannot control the strangled unfortunate fate that the universe aholds of me, should I still clip the wings of the mourning doves, wasting away their inestimable time, for no particular cause, through the afflictions of my wounds that have been severely caused by you?
 
Perhaps I have withered away; the prime years I keep holding on have faded; dwindled over time. Has it not occurred to you, my dear muse? I have wasted all my tears, as you clearly do not deserve any drops of it. Yet, through time that eroded my weariness, I continued to walk away from you. There was none to help me, but these two feet, walking away from you each and every time.
 
As the month nears its end, I wish you well. I bid you well; must you forgive me for my longing.