i hold steady, but lightly anymore. i know better now than to keep score. All stuff is garbage, all living things die. Change isn’t negotiable; i’m not gonna try.

Steady, i hold, for all beauty is fleeting. But i like to have something to admire of evenings. Still loosely i hold; real treasures come slowly. Most get left in draft states, never crafted fully.

Unfinished beauty is yet equally precious: half-sketches, scratched poems, scraps of confessions. Perhaps we could render the full work with some patience. Perhaps, but the next already awaits us.