People have a way of blinking, and missing the moment
Moments that then come back to haunt them in time
The Ifs and buts enlarging to giddying proportions
The broken promises of those moments
The potential of the moments which withered before even taking root
Come back as a specter
Manifesting themselves in heinous forms
Feeding on newer moments of solitude
Tearing through the defenses of the time elapsed
The memories of the missed moments
Gushing in to the interstices of life
Until those interstices enlarge to become a void
A black hole
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