I have long craved the embrace of a noble figure; to be tenderly kindled by radiant, warm hands to a gentle bloom. Throughout my incessant yearning for more, my search has grown static. I maintain a mild position with perfect execution as I cling to soft, old feelings that can only be found within my own nostalgia. Replaying a pure melody from memory, the small sections in which I cannot recall nor predict a resembling sound invoke a deep sourness; a resentment toward the newly forgotten patches. This steady development is out of my hands, and its inevitability will not shift from my resistance.