The wetness that touched the tongue and gut never reached the throat, the plight of in betweens. Melancholy is our theme music, shambles decide the tune tonight. Bones are brittle like glass, strength hanging inches away from becoming shards. Even words are shrivelled up at an inaccessible corner of the mind. Confrontations happen nowhere but in front of mirrors. Stars glimmer, reached or out of reach? The state of certainty, dim.