Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.

Keep true to the rare music in your heart, to the marvelous and unique form that is and shall always be nothing else but you. Keep to that and you can do no wrong, which I realize is easier said than done.

Stories heard but not recalled. Letters too. Words filling my head. Fragmenting like artillery shells. Shrapnel, like syllables, flying everywhere. Terrible syllables. Sharp cracked. Traveling at murderous speed. Tearing through it all in a very, very bad inreparable way.

Come morning I found the day as I have found every other day--without relief or explanation.

Here then - the after math of meaning. A liftime finished between the space of two frames.

At the heart of any terror is the fear of losing what we find meaningful.

This great blue world of ours is but a house of leaves, moments before the wind.