And yet you're all alone once again, with no air to breathe, with only wine to fill your belly. Is this your only form of sustenenace? So shall it be as you return to your rose water glasses. None shall understand you, none shall draw near to you, none shall draw water from your lips. You are all alone again and yet here you stand, your feet embedded with the shards of your past, the words of those you've loved so dearly splintered across your chest and your eyes. You are blinded from your tomorrows, for all of your yesterdays reside in the arms of those who hated you so dearly. Is this nightmare the peace you sought after? Does it detract from the moment to moment agony you endure when the eels and worms have sought your bones?

Someone please silence the voices, someone please hide the faces of those I could not reach. I cannot sleep knowing the torment they endured in their final hours. I heard the deathwails of my grandmother in her final hours as God gathered her years before her very eyes. I heard the tears of my brother's friend before he inhaled gunsmoke and powder, comitting to a fallacy that there is no love left for him upon this earth. I felt the veins go cold of so many who overdosed as they let their final tears fall.  There is no peace for one who lives yet has no aim. A true echo chamber is a hellish tomb where the heart screams relentlessly with no answer, where every blood vessel is strained to burst, where every teardrop is salted as if its become bretheren to the sea itself. A true echo chamber is a landscape of the downtrodden souls who cannot beseech the world around them, they access the true nature of Pluto. 

Who will listen? Better yet, who has the ears to withstand the bitterness of my wicked and swollen heart? I was once told that the greatness of humankind was our ability to galvanize, and yet misery loves company. Our misery, that which splits us, should also be a great unifying force. Our pains, our bitterness should push us to do away with all the evils that causes us these deep wounds. And yet... we are a wayward people. A wayward child. 

My heart is broken yet again. It matters not how many moments it has shattered, There is yet always a new point of contact to strike.