When the toil of all the words rolling and tripping over one another in my head had become too bruised to do anything but surrender they poured out of my cracked mouth like water slipping over the edges an overfilled bathtub.
The puddles of reality before me formed an ugly truth.

A tiny knot began to form in my gut.
It became a stinging recognition of the copious defeat.

Surrender is not bitter sweet.

In fact, the absolute lack of sweetness from this recently recognized defeat leaves a taste in my mouth so bitter the small colony of ants living in my attic have already vacated to Antarctica.
The prospect for sweetness down there is, quite obviously,
much greater than anything within a 9,450,000 square mile radius of me.
I don’t blame those poor ants for packing up.

I would have gone too if I could have somehow tricked my upper half into staying behind.