This is the world I live in.

The wind brushed cold against his bare forearms, hairless, mere blurs. The only sounds came from the wheels and axles of his longboard, bouncing along the brick-paved road.

And yet his tears spoke louder than them all, the chorus and the choir, the town's bell and siren.

I think I can make this work.

The hesitancy, the uncertainty. I think. I think. I think.

No, I feel. Accept the hesitation, but do not consume the pill. And do not let it consume.

Infinite. Nothing is, but perhaps we should take solace in that; that everything ends and with endings come beginnings.