The days are still warming, yet I can feel the chill. Like dark eyes, tinted with the flames of hate, still following me from where I can not be a witness. His distance is closing in his own mind, yet I can't find a way to reciprocate. My mind may not be ready, the wounds have not healed. I reach my hand out in form, performing, mirroring what I know is willed. His heart has been cold too, I can see it, but the warmth of mine is still hidden from my own self. I must find a way to guide this, to be what I could have been, but my tainted soul still lingers, still poisons. A bit of ale to taste the courage of men, perhaps it will soothe my throat, and, in turn, my mind can be free to rest.