Always I see myself holding a vase of sorts; It is never clear what it is, except that it is fragile, and precious, and it is in my hands. And the next moment it is falling, falling, and I am helpless to save it. And then it shatters into a million glorious pieces at my feet. And I stand there, forlorn, staring down at my hands and the disaster I orchestrated, my heart in as many pieces.

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Shatter

Aside

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