onehundredsixtytwo.

Waiting. Is there anything more so terrible than this? The uncertainty that lies between the slow mundane ticking of the clock. The blinking that seems to define life and syllables that can carry the divine into awkwardness. Then you are left between these lines, trying to find meaning to it all. It might be that phone call ending with simply cruel words, the poem scribbled onto a napkin on a windy day, or the first cup of coffee in the morning accompanied by the itching of your skin. The meaning is always there, it just has this way of going unnoticed very often.

Do not seek the answers which cannot be given to you because, you would not be able to live with them.