it's the space between. there's a delicacy in absence; almost infinite and it passes through hands like water. running. running out. everything gnaws at itself; contradicting itself. happiness brings such heavy sadness in the prettiest of ways. pain and laughter ally themselves hand in hand and everything spins. nothing spins. no preconceived notion of up and down, forward and back, will ever glimpse the lacklustre of the universe's plans, its reality. spurred on by its own past, every new move is exactly that. nothing is predetermined. everything is predetermined, spurred on by the past. stop looking for the directional arrows, they're not capable of leading you to where you want to go. to grow. best to look the other way. while almost everything screams inevitable, there's hope in the undecided, in the impartial, and it's yet to receive due credit.
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