He's smiling down on all of our sins right now. The seasons change, but the enigmatic side of human nature stays the same. Personalities have the tendency to mutate, but how long does it take for one to do so? Down what cracks do the remnants of your shattered, past self fall? Who inherits them from there?

The worries and wonders have accumulated, but the rain will have them by tomorrow morning. It's somewhat dismal seeing things for what they are. Having been robbed of any future indulgences in mania, what's to come is no longer intriguing and no shocking spin can be put on what has already happened.

If only there was a way to put uncertainty in its place,
Worlds would be warmer and I'd like my face