You. You'll never read these words, beneath a sullen sky. You'll never feel the gravel cold with little stones and dirt rolling on the canyons of your fingertips. I don't have the answers, the turmoil transfer, or the drafts release.

My dearest friend, where are the chirping of the birds. Segacious cliffs, my fear of heights. They're darkened by rowdy shallows. Craft. I cannot, but you may, but when you fail someday, hide my face. Reminiscent drops on a puddled tripe.

You. Swallow your stiffened words. I promise, friend, the day will not clear, but your stride will strengthen, your head will straighten, and all that is said will have been said, life's verbatim.