Where heartache and anguish fills that hollow space with a nameless doubting shadow, things lose meaning but for those preoccupations endlessly repeating. Then, as startled crows fluttering into a distant mist, dark fuelled thoughts stalk the veins like jagged hooks snaring the mind—a soldier caught within barbed wire, the trenches deep, the flats a festering heap, tick-tocking strength away, but burning deep, deep within the heart silvered moments brace, to endure, to last enough within this tormenting empty place. Now, kneeling in the mud of yesterday, fingers clenched in fists of clay, bloodshot eyes glaring at the benighted skies, seeing solace tangled in this lonely atlas of bygone days. And yet, knowing all things pass and another dawn approaches, an act of will alone breeds the temper to persist; blood and tears and fears drain into the mud, mortality's gift, this solitary moment of endless grace—and fight, and fight, and fight again, knowing nothing ever stays the same. Breathing dread, exhaling calm, breathing terror, exhaling redemption, clearing the mind, seeing this mystery cloaked as horror, this journey shrouded by mystery—so much pretence, and yet not enough sense. The charade falls in grim medieval satisfaction, and there this broken knight with this broken sword muses over so much malefaction, realising those wasteful crusades and those charges into philosophy's shades as beau geste moments of endless masquerades—indeed, shield nor spear matter not when one becomes what fear fears. Now, and again, discovered thy sangreal, meaning etched as snarling calligraphy upon the soul, finding acceptance, and finally knowing that enlightened apperception is merely edified perception.