I dream of pain, too, of violence, of despair, and suicide. Then wake up knowing, sometimes reality is much merciful than dreams. I tear up my heart into flakes of icy snows, that I may remember how it all began. there was an eclipse and I misplaced my eyes to the blood in the moon, a misidentity of everything I owned. The nostalgia that comes with a decayed memory of what I should have seen, before the darkness, and the only lit places are burning, burning before my eyes. My heart spins in a pool of grief, oversized, awkward, and kind quivering at the subtlest breeze. Nights are not always the ones to blame, But must I tell the story of a thousand rainy days before you? Pardon me, love.