It gets harder and harder to sleep.
Counting the ways in which victory could be attained somewhat already defeats the purpose. If I were to indeed lose (which I already undoubtedly have), then the only direction is forward. Retaliation is not my forte nor do I intend making a habit of. I'd rather have sweet, looming irony overcome this obstacle than anything else, or a dash of twist of fate mayhap, or a bullet in the eye. Figuratively.
I still believe victory, though Pyrrhic, will one day find life on my shoulder, dreading on the days passed by, counting misfortunes and laughing at them all the while. There is only that wishful thinking, more dreadful than dread itself.