At the edge of silver spouts twinkling diamonds and metallic oceans.

The swirl of loneliness sounds like a movie put on mute and constantly at the mercy of a repeat button.

The antonym of pink is icey cheeks from cruel, windy Christmases.

The shape of the past fits inside vanilla folders collected and stuffed neatly in metal cabinets, labeled for future reference.

The opposite of tender is gut wrenching guilt that agonizingly feasts on your precious desiares.

When you tiptoe through the Valley of Happiness, you might find paths of sadness and anger leading to a more promisingly enjoyable future.

At the center of boredom snores a grey mush, unable to lift a finger.

At the top of tomorrow waits a flag poll, ready to be garnished with the days achievements.