Most moments are fleeting. I toss and turn them around in my head, but they’re gone. Though they still permeate — and they go on to make homes in the thin slivers of neurons tucked tightly into flesh I’ll personally never see. And with time they’ll grow old and wither away, quickly replaced by newer and more anguished pains. And these too will die, reborn again and again until I myself am buried in the trembling ground. And maybe then I will be replaced by a newer, more anguished me, oblivious to the haunting cycle that traps all things living. And maybe I will go on to live, love and die, tucked into the small moments that are my life and live on in this never-ending cycle of which I’ll personally never know.