Today, a day of many days, comes upon a sunset in daydreams of mortality, the inevitability of no longer being, and reminds of tomorrow, some day to come, with a step ever closer to the end of things and, then, the beginning of things, but it brings no comfort that there are things to come with uncertainty, like what be after a stroll through the fog or a consequence of absence of expectations for the future, whose companions are despair and desire causing confusion and hatred toward nothingness, forever in emptiness, that hurt the spirit and body and imprison identity, the self, to be denied of contentment, where things come to rest, and mock possible meaning and purpose in drivel as time comes to pass whilst presence continues to waste away, to drift away...