Number four on the list is a chain reaction wanting to be
embedded in a momentary building up of sickness but
never quite yet tagging its partner cells to explore;
fumbling with the energy to explode upon the world
yet unexploded upon. It is instead a silent diminishing
into a momentarily better feeling, like an ache in the stomach,
that never squeezes itself into being, and with that apparent
solving of its own self-sustained issue, it creates no future.
It dwells on itself like a white dwarf with no past—
or a cyst in a child's lung that could have burst, but instead
turned dense and hardened by what its life really ended up
being. Pessimism grabs it, hard, off of its feet, and out comes
all the same lies it never lived, again, teasing away the last
bits of volatility until it never finds the death worth exploding for.