I am already holding onto a teacup. Unsteadily, for I am intoxicated with fear and drunk with laughter, but it is my teacup and I am holding unto it.

I have mended a teacup. The cracks are still seen, and occasionally tea leaks. It is scalding hot, it burns my fingers, and I am reminded of the time I dropped the teacup, where it smashed to smithereens. Hold on, no matter the heat. It is not the first my flesh has tasted the heat, but painful as it is, desist, resist. The tea will taste of sugar if we persevere.

An old teacup, like an old friend, never forgotten, has lost its lustre, lost its confidence, lost its dutiful purpose. Handicapped, it lies there, but the will is in the teacup to live, and there is nothing for me to do but to watch my teacup along, helplessly. You see, some things can never be replaced. Yet, some things, like tea in an old teacup, would warm even a cold heart, and the fight to survive will touch even the youngest minds.

But Simon, I did a very terrible thing today. My temptation, and my sin of uncertainty.

You see, today, I had to choose between two new teacups. I didn't really choose the teacups, you could say, I was lucky to be in a position to be able to choose teacups. And yet, I am still pondering over which teacup. I don't think its very easy to get a teacup, and I want my choice of teacup to be an appropriate and correct one. One wrong move, and I could be breaking all my teacups. I do not boast of being able to hold onto so many teacups at one time. Surely, at least one would have to shatter.
I would pray only, that it is not my mended one.


Lenore

Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!- a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?- weep now or nevermore!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read- the funeral song be sung!-
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young-
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

"Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her- that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read?- the requiem how be sung
By you- by yours, the evil eye,- by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"

Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong.
The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride.
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes
The life still there, upon her hair- the death upon her eyes.

"Avaunt! avaunt! from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven-
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven-
From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven!
Let no bell toll, then,- lest her soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note as it doth float up from the damned Earth!
And I!- to-night my heart is light!- no dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!"