As their descent begins aloft the world of the liminal, they desecrate humankind with their accepting arms. The world doth not beseech them, for where art more than they? Kind, welcoming, the truest decorum. Yet so sweet is the poison that hurts most duly. Perhaps flitting, an experience still? The newest pain hurts worst, for whence arrives the presence of processing. Stage one is always the worst, verily. Cancer, grief, a plan gone awry, death. Lovers leave before love is gone. Still, we all forth carry on. The world leaves a sacred goodbye, but we venture towards a cold and lively force. Happy are those who leave, but forget their whole? Doubtful. Nary a person exists whose transformation is full. A cormorant in most a way, a person nartheless. Still, valid must they be, for nobody is them, and thee are not ye. You love them again, aloft. Your heart blooms like the late cherry blossom as it adjusts to the change in tides, the subtle glazing of the season. Do you not notice the lack of life? Do you not notice the isolation? It is wholly consuming. You are part of it. On your lonesome, you join them all.