And yet, in the emptiness of an acquire space; we can feel nothing but the prick of crowdedness.
The crowd of the writhed thoughts, of a failed escape from the emotionless impossibility, the impossibility of moving to a world without your own world with you. To walk with fear through the harmless, the squirming of a desire to be saved from nothing at all, nothing but the remembrance that there was going to be no more. A sturdy image of something impossibly broken, so casually gone, the drag of the moments that could not be stirred through the drive of someone who knew with sure ease the nature of interpretation.
To be the first to be the found and then to be the last and then the lost, that was he, and there was no guidance towards any hopeful light, for he was that light. He was the light that guided the legions of the blind, turned the hopeless hopeful and in the wish of a dark night, the only thing that could bring on the morning ease. But to him, she had been he. She had stood against the backdrop of the resounding fall, the emptiness of the regret filled body. She had looked and she had seen, and what she had seen was nothing less than a perfection of a desire.
Now there was nothing but everything, which was the emptiest of promises. There could be no end to the understanding that it had all finished along with her, there was no more for him and yet there was nothing to end it. So the man with the two hearts became the man twice as broken, and through the crowded pit of the inevitable nothing, he travelled.