Life presents itself in multitudes — the quarrels with a lover are just the consequence of a history of quarrels, a history of misunderstandings regarding how genuine a feeling may have been, the strain of distance upon the memory, or perhaps the lies told, for the sake of preservation, that never quite equaled their debilitating gravity in substance. The wars that erupted only to unleash the barbarity of mans’ soul. And men persisted under the moniker of honor, with respect to the mother nation that praised him for his courage, but could only award that selfless valor with a pin if he returned, an inscription on a wall if he did not. The memories preserved in works of art, the timelessness of folding the top corner of a page, feeling of pages caressing finger tips, flapping back and forth when hurried by the wind, the words that tied up emotions so neatly, explored the intensity of our hunger to extend beyond ourselves and grapple with the enormity of this tireless place (commonly referred to as home) that is so successful (as brilliant as an overbearing mother) in keeping our desires within the boundaries of our toy rooms. And we humbly stay within the walls of this space and this time until we are ousted, forced to tremble before the dark eyes of infinity and beg for mercy — not for what we have done but, alas! for what we haven’t. And for the first time, drawing her hands together, squeezing until there was no power left, she grew frightened.