So many nights come into life when we think and think but cannot tell exactly how much sorrow we must erase before another morning arrives.
When we yearn deeply but this heart cannot hold love—it spills over, just so— then countless tiny moons gather even in distant deserts.
This heart— to carry the dead, to carry the past, to carry processions of tears, must swallow so much weeping.
Just as walking the path of dreams requires small fulfillments of desire, keeping one's sanity intact needs some madness too.
Rows of sleepless nights, alongside houses built of mistakes— in these two alone do we become human.