Callous hearts swim in a mist, the rash of addiction hovers as a moment is taken and the pulse slows. Smiles now encompass this posse of acquaintances as they begin to recollect the before.

Slowly will time possess those old warms and waves, of bonds filled with the fleeting and the fragile, and we will come to an understanding when beginnings are finally left behind and the quest for our dear, dear bygones is lost.

You may ask for what is this effort taken, the pains of stark reality. One will reply with a smile and a sigh and offer up no actualised clarity. The instance is like silence anticipating a thunderous roar, the fear claws on longer, dragging its broken feet, and when it arrives with a clap and a slam itself will not retreat.

For this is the Golden Hour, the glory of the scale, the assiduous throb of longing at last is set about to pale.