It can be crippling, having to carry the weight of one’s own existence. An exhausting stupor, worshipping the future without tending to the present. Much alike this fire, needing to be tended to. And I think of Sisyphus with his stupid stone; at least I am able to benefit from my labor. In present time,…

“My love is as a fever longing still,For that which longer nurseth the disease; Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,The uncertain sickly appetite to please..” Sonnet 147: William Shakespeare If my love is a fever, than my longing will no doubt be the end of me. Between the thick echoes of car horns…