a breaking point

Yesterday I was engaged in some conversation with two friends which drifted into a territory wholly unfamiliar to me for a while now- that is, something which evoked the feelings of a certain kind of dread and also of a sorrow for the end of something (as well as its subsequent re-emergence as something else, the beginning, the absolute beginning of something else, a point zero as I've never had it ever in my life), and, it followed me, this feeling, these sorts of moody thoughts, for hours, helped only by the smile and wave of a beautiful woman as I walked home (she who was waving to me, but whom I did not know but who I smiled at in return- a questioning but open kind of smile that said nothing but accepted everything) - and that smile, yes, but, alas, what came over me dissipated into the night and eluded my dreams (and so too my nightmares).  Before dropping into slumber, a double of bourbon, following my conclusion of the fourth book in Proust's series, neither calmed nor inflamed my mind to having any further thoughts on the matter, but I wanted more of the intoxicant, the downer rather than the upper that is liquid gold.

The feeling that I had yesterday- now gone, or at least pushed down, was that the world (as I know it, whatever that means, and whatever that is worth) can be seen to be "broken"

which through a nostalgic lens can be found things