A looming question floats suspended just inside my forethoughts. Before reaching the memories, ideas from the day, moments of lost inspiration, turns of emotions, this question lingers for an answer. It begs a reaction, but I am hesitant to confirm my fear. But… it remains.
What darkened depth have you reached?
I have yet to reply.
Because there are few things that hurt more
than recognition of your tired self.
Because there are few things that hurt more
than recognition of your tired self.
See here, the vagabond for honey 
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