Pretence became your refuge from the stark fluorescent melody and yet your sadness palpable to a stranger, as I am.Would that smile reach behind your eyes if you let it step past this retail pseudonym you've created, into the light you shine for weary travelers, as I am?

Familiar strangers we've become. Our pasts are shrouded in known mysteries and yet permeate the indefatigable nature of our very existence. Have you noticed this happening around us, entwining us with one another, binding the happenstance of possibilities we foster among our own kind? Does this even mean that we've met our own mortality time and time without noticing the true extent of our unhappiness? We move across these tiresome terraces with such grace in our infallible Yule, the moments of definition awake, and for what? You've become so accustomed to my silence you wouldn't know me from my brother, know my brother from my father – why would we even pass one another in wonder or awe at the momentary glimpses we afford yet never allow to progress to anything greater than passing fascination?

Is this truly what we’ve become to each, some malady infused with a poison greater than the culminating faithlessness we keep alive for the moments to pass, bleeding into one another our own mistakes? Is all lost?

George Orwell speaks of the locked loneliness one would have to live and yet, as futuristic fiction goes; he’s not all that far off the mark, is he? We’ve become these angels of anonymity, blissfully unaware of our own beauty to affect change to ourselves and the betterment of one another. We rage against nothing, we pray to none but the fear we let us sustain. Would you even know me still? Would I know myself?

There seems to be one single moment before we die, one single spark of recognition, which we’ve believed untrue for so long – would we live for life itself?

Show yourself, friend. For both our sakes.