Nostalgia.

One can yearn for what has already spent, the feeling so strong it triturates the very essence of the body and lays waste to the soul. As each new dawn breaks, the early bird flitters down to snatch the fattest worm and the flowers yawn away the night and darkness into the welcoming embrace of morning rays.

Our souls, they age with each inaudible tick of the clock hands. Our strength, it comes and goes like the ebb and flow of each wave breaching the shoreline.

It's now afternoon, the imposing butterflies waft through the summer breeze in their majestic jerseys of striking colors, each varying in tinge. In the deluge of the crystal clear water, tenacious schools of matured salmon, obstinate as an unmoving mountain, endure battering from each avalanche of water and slowly make their way back home amidst the clarion of water against water.

From a liberator's point of view - a rhapsodic juvenile lobbing a harmless rock at a great oak tree, naive in his attempt to fell the behemoth - could be considered the first steps to independence. But from the oppressor's point of view, that desperate attempt could be taken as a sign of graver events to follow, and thus he cuts down the boy.

Crispy crimson leaves segregate themselves from the branches and twirl down to join their fallen brethren. A whirlwind of rustling ensues, each leaf floating down as if guided by an invisible trail. The fog closes in, enveloping the forest like an army of empyrean warriors wielding spears of fire. Silhouettes dance around your dying fire, among the shadowy trees, giving way to hallucinations of fiendish monstrosities.

I've run out of complicated theories. I can't remember the smell of your skin and the zeal of your wink.