In the absence of my wounds I revisit the world we once inhabited: a space full of sound and fury lost in the marshes of (our) Memory. A universe where time stands still under the cross of our lost cause(s). An echo where the Words spring-forward -- like kamikazes they come alive under the filter of my finger's caress only to burn bright like a constellation of stars that never die. A valley where Hope floats orphan of our impossibilities. An empty field where the past lies naked atop an altar, an arcade fire, where we house our prerogatives -- mistakes we knew we were making; the present beats and thumps with scars and laughter; the future stops and stares mired between a curse and lullaby. A hymn where the clock's body skips - desperate and imbibed - imbuing a foreign language that dilutes our tongues with silver linings and fills our lungs with fate and desire...waiting for her, beautiful Melancholia, to sweep us away into her coven where we await her communion.