I thrive only in a world lit by sunrise; old lurks within a tunnelled cave where I have to sleep. In my nightmares, the familiar knocks insistently on my room too forcefully to remind me of nothing, until the tunnel collapses on itself, and the taut darkness suffocates me. Oh, how I dread raging only for the sake of raging. Rage only cries in the darkness, which makes me afraid of where I sleep. I detest this cave—I know it too well. I am much too familiar with the man who has lived his life in regret and lives the rest of it in stupid compensation. Who stains his life with anger, and insists it on mine. But smiles too quick when either chance or deceit lets him see a twinkle of love in the dark. I’ve hated looking at the woman who lives her life unaware that her suffering comes from choosing the road most travelled. Who lives, as if she were still that woman the time she chose which road. They know nothing of the skies, the trees, the river, or the road lit by my sunrise. And so in their darkness, I can never will myself to smile. I rage, only for the sake of raging—it’s what I’ve known best to do in the face of darkness.