If He is a scapel

Between art and the so called life;
between the unintentional and the intended;
between the beauty and the melancholy;
between the everyday and the interstices.
Something became everything,
but everything became rather quite
nothing,
nothing
cuts quite as deep as a scapel that seeks to heal,
history that-has-been,
history has been nothing.
But I'm fine, don't worry.
I'm not a seasonal friend. Really.