Could there ever be another answer to here pleadings…she will never hope to believe as such. Would never be tempted with the idea of permanence past her own vivid dreams of constant, details flood her existence now, all the more frequent as the final day has grown hazy…there was never any question. Despair is not so much hoped, as expected. In times like these she will never seek or aspire to hope to more than slivers of happiness at a time…she begs for days when the idea of hope might be strung together, perhaps following something of love. Yet she will never be satisfied with anything less than that. It comes blinding and screaming, and becomes ever encompassing and she cannot see past the flood. There is no fury, not even the smallest passion to be found without love. She looks in his eyes as he declares their very own non-existence…and she knows, again, that she would not take back a single lived expression, neither expressed, spoken, screamed, or never understood. For her, it seems as if life might expire without this small shuttering fate that awaits her. She believes it has all been done wrong, in the very name and honor of fate, but what exactly this is to prove she would never be so bold as to guess. She was heard once declaring, in more than muzzled whispers, that she would have been given this Very sliver for the sake of calling out goodness. She longs, craves, begs for weakness. If only in this very instance, so that he might well see into her very soul…