It has not become lost nor has it been found.
▜▚▚ ▞▞▚▜ ▞▖▖▞▜▚▜▜ ▞▖▖▛ ▜▙▚▚ ▞▞▚▜▛▚▚ ▞▞▚▜▚▜▛ ▜▙▚ ▞▞▚▜▛▚▚ ▞▜ ▞▖▖▞▚
▜▚▜ ▞▖▖▞▜▜ ▚ ▞▞▚▜▞ ▞▖▖▞▚ ▞▞▚▜▚▜ ▞▖▖▛ ▜▙▛▚▚ ▞▞▚▜▚▜▛ ▜▙▛▚▚ ▞▜▙▛▚▜ ▞▖▖▞▚ ▞▞▚▜▚▜
▚▚ ▞▞▚▚▚ or can you remember how ▚▚ ▞▞▚▜▚▜ ▞▖
features...
▘▚▚▝ unfamiliar wilds ▙▘▖▘ ▛▝▗
▚▚▝ a familiar face ▙▘▖▚▚▝
▞▝▞▞▞▞ a world you might recognize
▘▚▚▝ at last, you will come to an end. You're at ▚▚▚▚ that final door, but ▚▚▚▚▘▚ hesitating. Do you want to go in? Just what do you think that you will find, when you get to the end?
▚ ▞▞▚ ▞▞ and turned his head as though he needed to ▚ ▞▞ and so he showed his hand a bit too soon. Face to face, the two parties now stood at odds, and for many hours, neither made a move to speak. The sky cracked without a sound outside ▚▚▘▚ and its silence grew unbearable.
A quiet empty place... an empty place of sadness and sorrow, loneliness.
By this point, there are few crickets remaining in the wild — and the start of the harvests would ▘▚▚▘▚▚ spray the fields with the ▚▚▝▚▚▚▚▝ halcymanual waste-oil, and after that, ▚▝▚▚▘▚ would bring the utter ▚▚ ▞▞▚ of the lands that much closer to completion. I didn't live near crickets ▚▚▚ but I lived near a roadway they liked, and I put the hand on the roof above my window.
Not the final ending that you feel good about.
You're left to run your hands over it. All you're left with is ▛▘ ▜▝▝▝▞ fabric stretched thin over bare wire mesh with nothing behind it except the stray scraps of dust that have managed to leak in over the years.
▜▚▜▜ ▞▖▖▛ ▜▙▛▚▚ ▞▞▚▜▚▜▛ ▜▙▛▚▚ ▞▜ ▞▖▖▞▚
What if you never leave?
▜▞▜▖ ▛▟▖▛▜▚▜ ▚▜ and you stay there ▞▞▚▜▚▜▛ ▚▜▚▜▞ ▞▚▜▚▜▛ until you're trapped inside a place with such a bad feeling, where all the awful things go.
▜▚▜▜ ▞▖▖▛ ▜▙▛▚▚ ▞▞▚▜▚▜▛ ▜▙▛▚▚ ▞▜▙▛▚▚ ▞▞▚▜▚▜ ▞▖▖▞▚
But, you feel something.