There are many degrees and lands "between..."
There is a place that tolerates the stare from no man's eye, a vault immense enough that Xanadu would quail upon one tile of its floor. This realm will brook no audit or exam, reconstruction nor reform. What's done is done.
As though possessed of some omnipotent entropy, the emptiness has long since called forth all the detritus of a hundred worlds and a million lives, and still has room for as many more as can be imagined. Here, a tower of births; in the dimness farther on, a pile of firsts. Records and rewards, pieces and revenants; lost and found, only to be discarded again.
Urgency and energy come here to die, and surrendered ideas loiter in the corners, hang from neglected walls. The road to hell may be paved with good intentions, but the path to this purgatory is cobbled together with only the vaguest notions of what could have been done a hundred tomorrows ago.
With exquisite stealth, a monument bestowed to each of us rises in this material echo chamber. With every glance from the corner of one's eye, another spire of almosts, one more drawer full of should-have’s. But what is built is never seen by the mind or the eye, for light fails in this anti-heaven; all the shapes and packages, palaces and slums of forgotten goals and golden ideals loom skeletal and threatening in a perpetual half-dusk.
In the end, one must face--
“Dad…? DAD! Mom said if you're done trying to stare the garage clean, that dinner’ll be ready in about five minutes!”
...What’s done is done...but there's always more to do.
I’ll get back to this tomorrow...