Shattering should be prescribed to portraits; to vases; to the finality of the items we send into cement storms.

However, it seems, those items, or beings, those loves and adorations seem most precious to us at the end of it all. We struggle to put back together the most immaterial of shards, those shot dead by our wildest winterings, the velveteen strength of human hands. We pat and pet back at glass, at greed, at the gaps of these creatures whose tongues, whose teeth, whose torches we have suddenly expired.

Repercussion still bites back. And still we ignore its eyes, all golden and awake in the midnight that cites our exhaustion. Still we shun the yellow pupils that portray us as toddlers of rage.