"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places." – Ernest Hemingway.
It had occurred to me, whilst standing in the rain, that I was broken. Wrecked by circumstance and solitude as though I was nothing; a nonentity. I was overwhelmed and yet, devoid of the requisite emotions I had lost the only tangible, physical, empirical evidence of my significance.
"All sorts of dreadful things will happen to us," however she had pledged faithfulness and had been a most devoted companion, he felt remorse as a physical presence there to chastise him.
All of those bitter recriminations and apathetic sentiments were besieged by heartache and anguish as he physically recoiled against remembrance. They were, these memories, bitter, rigid, metallic and merciless.