You have died into your identity, your loves have pruned the luxuriance  cherished in them, strewn the blossoms for the sake of the one bud you are still waiting to open. What is in the future is really in the past, the plasma glow still visible after light years between. It is a sort of argument from dementia, and you find yourself winning it, relentlessly. Everything scattered can be collected again, if time is the one thing that it is. It's only you that keep running down the channels, like a mischievous splash of mercury.