Friends, my apologies for not posting lately (Benson, this one's for you!).

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The Anti-climax.

I strive for it, pray about it, lose sleep over it, cry about it, sweat for it, obsess over it, daydream about it, grow sick over it, sacrifice for it, hope for it, hope for it, hope for it -- all for one glorious and heroic Moment. And then it becomes a memory.

It can be music, it can be him, it can be God; It is life. And what is left of me after this moment but a faint nostalgia of what was, and little hope for what is and what will become. What is left of me but a silly romantic longing for, well, I don't know. Euphoria, perhaps. Even the mosquito circles around the room for an hour before its opportune Moment to rest on her plump upper arm to finally feast and drink in her plentiful blood, only to be killed on a full belly. Dying is an art, like everything else. Right?

I tell you, anything is better than the anti-climax.