Squeezing Blood Out of Stones

I want to cry.

I am grieving over an unfinished business, mourning over what has not yet been lost but feels like it has been gone for a long time already.

Indeed, “where do broken hearts go?” With my heart tightened as if a corset were fastened around it, with my fingers aching due to being crossed for ages, I wish for a place that heals, not for a place that further breaks.

Perhaps we are being unkind to our fragile hearts, like being harsh to children born out of and in misery.

May I ask, is there such a thing as a third chance? Or a fourth?

Ad infinitum et absurdum.
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