With its red gold missing, but its beauty sturdily still prevails, I am perpetually picking up my striped, dotted, lined, flecked, banded and swirled grey heart, that by mimicking my beloved Rebel drops itself in front of me wherever I try to walk to, whilst unraveling its tender truth of being a maze-like part of all movement, a fluffy soft contrivance, accustomed to the salience of overthrow without skipping a single beat.
Simultaneously I question the full weight of this severe sadness and why it fits me like the warmest wintercoat, woolly wrapping all affected areas and comfortably covering these too ugly falsehoods I fiercely fear.
