run ons and [fragments]

Why is it, I wonder, that I am drawn by the fleeting? Seduced by the enigmatic pull of anything that stays, if only to leave a little later. Seemingly pleased to the brim by momentary elation. And yet with one eye constantly open, fearing the shadows in the alley, the skeletons in the closet, the dreams tucked away in boxes, the vale of bottomless truths waiting to jump in and cut off this temporary, right down in the middle, where it seems to hurt the most.

But is it really too grave a crime to find life in the passing?