So Deep It Didn't Even Bleed

I see her again, I hear her, and I could bite my hands at the agony of not being able to describe it.


Henri Alban Fourier
The Wanderer

My heart-- It's broken... And I keep cutting myself every time I try picking up the pieces. It must be made of glass: to be so fragile as to break at the drop of a word. The way a word resounds, glancing off its sides, reverberating and shaking it to pieces. Although the music it makes is splendid, enough to raise the hairs on my arm, to curl my toes, what risk it must be-- to play for echoes at the price of tragedy.