Denouement

Returning to the cacoon, it's begun to begin again: the seed spoiled, the weeds in command. It's supposed to be a renaissance of my own making, but it's taken on the air of concession; it's an accident waiting to be avoided with reflexes that have been dulled with ennui. To skid, to swerve, to plunge into the abyss: it's a game of inches, and nobody's winning.

Another bloodless coup. Another upheaval within the infinite emptiness of my unbelieving soul because of the blood that screams incessantly into the void of my unwavering guilt.