'My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom.'
~Araby, James Joyce.
There are often situations where the otherwise tranquil Silence becomes quite chaotic; and in these situations, I feel as though my words drown out in a flood, which, on finding nowhere else to go, pours itself out into my bosom, but flows no more; it resides as a reservoir within my damned body; and it is this reservoir that we must be meticulous of, Dear Reader, for it is the reason not only for unspoken words, but entire worlds laid waste, and when the shattered glass of dreams cuts the skin, the blazing wound is wedged so deep into the soul that it is devilishly fatiguing to even attempt to mend; and you feel the hands on your shoulder that you once thought to be cold, but as you feel them now you see that they are warm, and you do not fathom that it is only your stinging wound that makes it so very welcoming.
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