The answers haven't shown up yet. The insecurities still linger making the air stale. The seeds were planted some time ago. Unaware of their genesis it's impossible to explicate. The extremities reach every hiding place without an exodus. They loop back suffocating any desire to continue to ask questions. Will the solutions bring life to anything prepared to rot? When they walk into the room will it be too late to make a difference? Will they temporarily satisfy the appetite? Will they rest on the tongue long enough to change the direction of the air?