Rough days when equilibrium’s equation equals zero. Like sleep injected into the blood, an inertia blurring one’s bright, blue horizons. Rough days when seedgrief blossoms into a bounty far beyond one’s ability to harvest melancholy into blessings. Soon will come the rupture, the burn, when problems will crumble and turn to ash. Then, love will gather the syllables meant for our mouthes; the words hiding like diamonds in the rough boundaries of shattered belonging.