In the lonely hint of darkness, for there are nor wit nor wail. It matters not how things began, for all is doomed to fail. In despondence, it occurs that few things persist so well as uncertainty. That constant, maddening drip, penultimate and voracious through and through. The criss and cross, flaying and barreling forward, draining into yawning steel or simpering infinity. It’s there. And so, these times that conspire to wrest recollection from failing and questionable histories, that ascribe nostalgia to a litany of inconsistent but unfailing missteps, revenge is both meticulous and triumphant.
About a week ago, I was prescribed Lexapro. While this may not be the stuff I’m on long-term, it’s still long overdue for reasons obvious to anyone who knows me. What I currently find most interesting about it however, is actually related to a dream I had last night. My dreams tend to be very vivid and numerous, though sometimes they follow a theme or storyline. Last night, there was one particular scene I recall with such clarity, it’s almost difficult to accept I wasn’t awake.