The bar. Just precariously perched on two small ledges. Sitting there on its personal pedestal, it taunts all those waiting their turn to try clearing it without dislodging it from the sleeping place. Waiting above the heads of the brave few, looking down like a king on his lowly plebeians. The bar. It sits, and waits. The bar has nothing else to do but sit. It will wait for anyone, everyone who endears themselves a challenger for the height it rests at. It lies, like a physical embodiment of challenges; the embodiment of the divide between success and failure. One can rise above, and be applauded for what they do, or one falls short to only be remembered by his faithful few. The bar does not care about almost. Almost is a word of
