It changes every time I write it. And sometimes writing it is a cathartic experience, and sometimes it just reinforces all the hopelessness. Sometimes it's only two lines long. Other times it's page after page after page.
Sometimes it has teeth, and it's too close for comfort. Sometimes it has eyes, and they're glowing blood-red in the dark small hours. Sometimes it's just the husk of words that ripened and fell to the forest floor when nobody was listening. And sometimes it has wings, and it hovers just out of reach, and it's then that I'm most afraid to send it, because I know I'd never get it back again.
Send. Don't send. Keep writing, keep talking, keep dropping pennies into the well. Make a wish, make a promise, make a bet, make amends, make a move, make a gods-cursed mess of the whole damn thing, make a monster you can't control, make one spark in the dark, make your mark.
Sometimes it's the last thing I write. And other times it's the first.