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Sometimes, your yesterdays stop whispering in your dreams. They cease to be... living, breathing realities in the story of your life. Because sometimes, our present truths render all our past symphonies... mute. Meaningless. Inconsequential. And it ceases to matter if you lived or died or breathed again. It ceases to matter if you never did. What you said, what you felt, all the words you whispered into a darkness you presumed was friendly, where you perceived invisible listeners, and felt their breath, warm against your lips... accomplices to your secret crimes, to kisses stolen from the world in that desperate, dying darkness. They cease to matter... Because nobody was ever listening.