Entry #3: A Melancholy In Gold

The royal tears won't flow. I have no hope of claiming the power in the wake of their deluge. When a meteor hits, the impact only does some of the devastating -- waves do their fair share. I feel as if I have it in me to dredge the toxins from the belly of Gaia herself and, in doing so, spin up and dilute the poisonous rot stewing there. I keep the golden key in my pocket. It will know its' companion in due time.

To know The Key is to let it twine like some eight-legged reptile round my fingers, sink its' teeth into my palms, and find rest. As my coil tremors, my spirit slinks off and away. Cowardice, or tact? Respite, in either case, and by such simple means.