Failure.

Spilling out of the mouth, one might neglect the regal contours and elegant structure of it. The mere utterance of it conjures a ululating palate of emotion, from the wounded groans of a pitiful general to his bloodied soldiers to the sanguine cries of a mother to her neglected, dead child. Failure. It rolls around the articulating organ; it squeezes and tears the lungs as it is born, spurting through the chest and out the confines of the wretched echoing across the sky. And how it resounds in the sky, how it rolls and thunders across the horizon, lingering and festering like an fallen angel’s death sentence. Once it is free, it bleeds everywhere.

But failure is regal and elegant. It is upstanding and strong, blooming for what seems like an eternity. It is the king of its realm, though listless, holding a hammer of relentlessness, immune to impunity. And failure is beautiful; tragedies are made of it, and how could one not be moved by such?

Sora, so pure, was moved to the edge, past the tears and past the break. So pure. Pure of everything.