1-9-2019
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Time is just one big circle. Like I wrote in *Living Wasteland*, like the loop of time that keeps Heavestone pristine while the land around it develops and grows and rots with the normal passage of time.

"I'd love to be the very person you hate," I pen down for a shred of a song I came up with one day, unaware that I wrote a poem with nearly that exact line on 10-22-2016. ("amo / malamo", if you want to go digging through my archives.)

I just keep stretching for the unattainable *me*, and then I fall back down into believing I'm someone else. Ouroboros, but with spicy sriracha sauce that just gets more potent as time ticks on.

Mori, Talla, and Serah. Shadows of an already existing order, and yet stark in their originality.

The first of the first, the last of the last, forever far away from the fields we used to call home.

***

On another note, I'd like to say that Marth mains have no civil rights. Pit mains, however, if you're reading this, *please* interact.