What was once mysterious confidence is really blinded cowardice. The indifferent self-assuredness melted away into a pathetic need for attention along with the esoteric brilliance, which shuddered into irrelevant bumbling confusion. Yet you walk in my dreams and somehow manage to keep me in your wake. Life isn't fair, yes, but I'm not going to be the one to complain. Just that, if you see me holding onto the rib muscle you crushed, it is because I find it unbearable to stand, and feel the need to hold myself up against the weight of your memory. I can't say for sure if I'll ever get over this, and there are many things I worry about as a result. But I guess I just have to take it one fumbling step at a time. There are so many things I could hope to say, but it would all be in vain. So.