We were walking on glass threads, and somewhere along the path between Pyrrhic triumph and intolerable loss, it shattered; the narrow lining’s fragile shards with our footprints fell, alongside it are all the prudent contingencies: our dreams, our tomorrow, our hopes. It is not an “if we could start over”, it is an ”if we would start over.” So many chances we could have kept, so many afflictions we could have saved, and yet, with our Hearts, Oh, cursed Heart, we chose to tread on silver strands. Now, tell me this, for what good reason should Temper be the master of both our Fates? If you have no control over that which destroys you, then I will end up in flames with you. And who among us wants to be burnt? Scorched by clashing gunpowder and words — no, I do not want that. I have been burnt once. I have burnt you once. I fight — I do — and as much I want to continue, that which makes me strong is my weakness. Crossroads, like stitches, have streets like strings that are meant to meet at one point, and never meet again, all for the fortitude and felicity of the pathway like fabric. We are lying at the overlaps. We are on the verge of unraveling. It’s a steep transition but one we’ve been anticipating nonetheless. A puncture on the fabric, and we either pick up the needle, get pricked, and start over; or leave everything torn and obsolete, to be covered in dust and oblivion.