I feel indifferent all too often, and I flourish all too infrequently. I am bountiful, in stories, of memories past, in which the hero ultimately fails and falters. My life is a Shakespearean tragedy. No matter what, I will fight. I will not fail, not again. Empty promises to keep my morale high. I will walk through this valley, my sword in flames, and I will triumph, I hope. I can hear drums, in the distance. The rhythm stays in beat with that of my heart's rhythm. The air here is, well, stale and unforgiving. The pressure it weighs down, on my soul. My very being is, insignificant, at best. In this moment, I will pull out, from my back pocket, a letter. You wrote it, about three years ago, it reads; "Falter, or triumph, you're the light that shines, those dark, bitterly cold, December nights." It's June, these words don't mean much to me, not anymore, not what they used to mean. They used to strike pure, raw, untouched, beauty into the very ventricles that comprise my small, black, heart. I will light, in this valley my last cigarette, and breathe my very last breath. Before the inner war rages, violently. Thought against thought. Idea against idea. Centralized war will rage deep in my cerebellum. I don't know who will triumph, but I know, I will falter, definitely.