In impossibilities i entrust, the gathering willows of our nightly dreams, decadent and unadorned, yet seeping through and within the incompetence of a single lie.  yet we seek to believe what has already been believed by another, and found to be the very inadequacy of all of our combined regrets.  time is a factor of change and analogy, a token mistokened and taken from our very hands.  we lie because it is the language of our partaken love, the fluid that when extracted becomes no more the sum of our parts.  placed along our lives, the tentative pause before an unforeseen collapse, the silence that sighs and soars further into the deafening sky.

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