It's a sneaky bastard, that's what it is. And fucking persistent.
I lock the doors and I bar the windows, and I think I'm safe. I'm not safe. It gets in. It wends its way through the tiniest cracks in my soul.
Hope for what, exactly?
For a chance? That time expired a long time ago.
For a miracle? Nope. Too little, too late.
Maybe, I think, for a series of miracles. At least a dozen of them, each more improbable than the last, culminating in a singularity of...
I don't know. I just don't.
To nonsensically need what I don't want. To desperately want what I don't need. To count on the impossible. To deny the inevitable. All are true, and all are false.