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Look down on the pile of purple mistakes you made…how silently they lie on the floor, like bleeding children. I touch them with the blue of my conscience and the hew becomes a shade of warmth – a kind of warmth that defies the malignancy of who you are. At the end of the day, all we manage to be is faded and ripped tendrils of our yesterdays, trying to be bigger and brighter than before. I sometimes wish I were a feather as light as them; and you wish you were as visible a light as them – both of us knowing one is as empty as the other.