It was never meant to be torn. The sunbathed wearers, shorn of escapades wrought on the horizon pleaded insanity, but only the whistling bristles swayed towards infinity. The liars and cheats, the scoundrels and hags.  And to what purpose could it possibly serve while the doldrums abound in resilient anticipation of the calm? They lay dormant once, twice, and maybe the third was a fairy-tailed fluke. Gestation could only last for so long and the sepulchre of morn lingered in corners of hatching shadows. Perhaps the yearning roar could not sustain its insatiable fight. The denizen of the dreadful, palpable might.