There are times in which something about this pointless existence changes; and for a while, the existence that was so loathed becomes welcomed. When these mere fragments of time come to an end, we’re left wondering when it changed. Why it changed. How it changed. And if we’re better or worse off for it. Because of this, or rather, in spite of this, the mold is cracked. Not broken, per say- if that were true, what would I, the faithful storyteller, have to do with this?
