There is an inexplicable splendour to the situation we find ourselves in, teetering on the edge of catastrophe and revelling in the brevity of our heyday.

Now we gild our collective past with a thin film of retrospective optimism. Basking in the backdated warmth of hopes once had and dreams once indulged, the bitter chill of contemporary apathy burns as water run on a frozen hand; anaesthetised but absolute.

And the truth seems so piffling a thing that it’s almost better to bury it. For it is but a spectral pall, fleetingly visible behind a nostalgic veil.

The paths ahead are thorny and they’re only getting thornier, and to brave them armed is to spit into the wind, so why not? Why not marvel at futility?

Embrace senselessness as a brother and concede that the road ahead was paved of old.

Turning, customarily, it comes as no surprise that it recedes into the distance.

That we have flaws. That we waste, confuse and fracture. That, blissfully blind, we stumble.

That we try.

That we do.

That we are.