In a dark room there sits a man. He stirs in his chair, as if a dream nips him, and runs a hand through his pale hair. The sole light in the room is one beam from the nigh-shut door, a beam that flows down the floor and gleams in the deep wet tank next to him, where blooms a lone black rose. The tank seems to cast a dim bruise-tone glow on his face, a glow that does not reach past him. He stares out at the dark room, hears the low sounds chafe in the walls, chafe in his ears, chafe in the tank and its rose. In that dark, in that sound, he seeks for just one true thing, one thing that will last.
But he will not quite find what he seeks, for in that room no thing is true.
It just lasts. And lasts.
Things do not need to be true to last.