Figments of my imagination seem to be the only things I live for at this point. What I once thought, what I once felt and held onto with warm hands, was never what I presumed. Life is simply sand grasped in my hands. No matter how tightly I squeeze my fingers together, no matter how firmly I wrap my palm around, the particles slowly fall and escape me.

I need the light of day to fill me to the brim
To emerge the life out of me again
Before the imagination teases me to death