An illusion of conclusion.
A formless blob of rage, held in check by a proficient controller, keenly aware of societal boundaries. Pulled back again and again from its dream explosion, it lies waiting in its bloated chamber, brimming to the top, sphincters tight shut so often they are dry, rigid, unsure if they remember how to release. They only acquiesce to trickling sadness, enough to relieve pressure. Just enough. Inside the chamber, the old liquid continues to stagnate and rot.