Sometimes it is fit to wonder why I’m here. Being here. In a place sometimes foreign, too close for comfort yet having an obstruction. The flow of life will not progress, it looks tainted. Like graffiti on the wall, not much the skilled artisan.
Will the wires cross in or shall it wither. Over time and to lack of care, or perhaps without much of a dare. Maybe the air is thick and the wafts cannot be hidden, but should the fires burn or the ice quickly smitten.
All that is clear is the dead of the night. With the screen staring forward, what does it see?