The March winds blew and soon after, August came about. He wasn't bothered much by it, so much time had passed that it all seemed normal now.

"I can't think", he said. The howls of the night carried his words. A guardian unkept, memories unlived. He reached out to touch the wind. The wind replied back, or that's what he thought. Like a tree he let his thoughts blow through the branches, soothed by the music of his rustling leaves.

Things were going to be okay, he told himself, but never really got around to listening to his own voice or inching to believe a shred of what he said. He said things because they needed to be said.

He fell, deep into an abyss, but rather than going down, he fell into the sky. Falling, through the clouds and beyond. Deep into the milky way, where stars were black and his screams inaudible.

Thoughts left unfinished, half formed and unblemished. The basis of reality, transcending the human mind. Hollowing out from the depths of his heart, where thoughts drifted around shapelessly, forming when addressed.

A mature acknowledgement of the realities of our collective histories. Life never had a preordained meaning.

Did anything ever truly matter? He thought, but naturally, this question didn't present itself in words as a conscious thought, formed in a single lucid sentence. It addressed itself as a silent, primal howl.

As a flicker of paint in the vast cosmic canvas, we decide what matters.