The darkness folds over the day, and I lie on my back typing, wondering where the conversations are—those that refuse to remain trapped inside the mind.

Few are willing to touch the honesty demanded of a man under the gaze of eternity. Not the rehearsed honesty that performs for the crowd, but the kind that burns inward, that asks tends to a question without deflection, without retreat into the shelter of former beliefs.

Someday there will be another who steps into that furnace. One person who sharpens as fiercely as they are sharpened. That is the only blade worth touching: the one that exposes what has been hidden, and dares two to take a swing at life.

The world grows dull when it reduces itself to games, virtuous or not. I long for a challenge that costs more than money or hours.

Let the price be belief.

Let the veils be torn.

Let every surplus of self be caught and ripped away by something spinning and sharp.

If these words startle, let them. I was never meant to play the game as it is, but I will find one to play.