never is a realization, or, at a lower level, the loss of hope,

squirming for want of something, maybe, but bona fide never

is the last breaths of a fight, a lifeless eternity, maybe, a

dried tumble weed that pushes or is pushed through

motions; a lost devotion to a cause that’s even further gone

acceptance of some sort of damnation, submission to an

inevitable retrograde; it is not the death of the body itself,

but rather the submission of the soul and a relenting to the

death; it is that dreaded question, when is the cause lost?

When should hope be gone, should the terminating preparations

be made? Languish, then, in the loss of a rhythm, abandonment

of a substrate and arrival of dissonance far removed from any

semblance of familiarity, perish in the inevitable, but at what

point does Willam Travis etch his line and when did the last

defenders know that they would fight, but lose?

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