At what point does neglect become abuse and coldness hatred? Insensitivity is the result of the cold and how chilly must it become before the numbness kills? If one is waging war on oneself, who becomes the victor, and for what spoils? Is love worth fighting for, or is it something that can never be attained through struggle? Is there a balance to the whole messy ordeal, or is it simply another case of throwing the heart in the meat grinder for the sake of a lost cause? A threshold is a precipice of minute, and vast nature. It is a portal through which worlds change.