It is in each stolen verse, within every fractured heart. It is the underlaying rhyme, the poet's story, the endless riddle. It is the curse that befell every single one of us.

It is the only way that I will ever truly die.

It is not pain, it is not suffering, nor despair or lonliness. It is not any of these things, but it is responsible for all of them. It is the human embodiment of what may be the only real fact in the universe, it is the thing that kills us deepest and most completely. It is a hidden fear, known by all, understood by few and named by none. It is the trump card in the great game, it is the laughter of a thousand blind thirsting gods. It is chaos. Change. Precise and uncontrolable, undercounterable.

It stricks without warning, without a sign. It has signs to be read, yet by then it is too late to change the names. It finds its way into the boldest hearts, it seems to seek out those whose flames burn brightest. It turns the warmest souls to frozen icy shadows. It sends love crashing, like rain, into the void. It turns truth to lies and lies to truth. It is avoidable only by chance and it hits only the most unlikely.

It just is, and it goes nameless.