Railing against time as objective reality, still I go only forwards, no matter the drugs, meditation, or prayers. Before me is tears, behind me is bland, the only response that I feel is 'and?'. And what is this life, this hell self-inflicted, this avoidance of pain the greater pain? And where is the rainbow of all these tomorrows that glistens in tears I hold in, where is the whisper that unfurls my hope, so tightly curled and twisted? Is it forwards?