There is no greater wellspring of regret than in long lost desire for love once again reawakened. The rejection of that false promise that one has made a pact with to have one’s way or die. So who is pretentious now? The sore hollow fool that will follow through for a score of moments this scripted scenario of eternal failure? This game of finding regret by what one has not done rather than simply re-enacting the fable of what one should have known better so much longer than long ago? The accumulation of first impressions that still remain stacked up against one like a house of cards. If fools there be that run this world then you are both their dean and their teacher! To be mad in lust with someone so much so that you hate them for their sanity in staying clear. Volcanic soil undisturbed by soiled footprints of the commonality of reason in unconsciously recalling events locked within. Imprisoned in their own way that they never are allowed to become the primary cause of one’s own life of farce and folly. To sully the ivory and gold of what they once took in for a golden moment in ions long ago and try to pick away and chip the jewels from their mountings it like a thief. Boxcars undulating on steel rails overloaded moving ever slower now as the train nears the final station. So many players now long and permanently gone. Fallen away by the wayside into histories dust of what once was and never could have ever been. Overlapping dramas repetitively announcing that same old singular story of have and have not. How pathetically frail is one at their core to turn to lead every golden memory that one has touched. To make villains out of all those that one had once long ago had thought they had known. And then blame them for not one’s self having known better.