I do not know why I have chosen this path to farther demoralize myself self-consciously and physically. I know not why I have nor do I have it within to banish the shadows that plague this encased body. I have shown great manner and appreciation to and towards a many- bound to nothing; I am free.

In fine glances, I see nothing and feel there is no need for etching due notes. For to keep note, it is like writing in the air with quill but no parchment. Useless scribing of graced limb to no ends met. I find myself in a constant battle of epic proportions between truth and fantasy. I see truth. Things that are, will be; things that are instill are devoid; things that have shape, will have none. As the wind thrashes and howls, sand will be sand and does not compliment nor does it yield to the wind. Sand will be sand. It moves ever so lightly yet so abrasive; each grain of sand.

No matter what song is sung, it never seems to be in synced with such luscious rhythm: rhythm of chasteness. It is so and it will be. To impregnate a prism with soft caresses does nothing as such a prism bears no goost to reflect what has already been hinted. You are voiceless to a box that has-noth ample resonance.

The desire, shapeless; fares like flickering flames abound that dances and sways with the lightest breathe. Desires are like the clouds splashed upon the horizon never knowing what shape to take upon itself to become. Moved by the heavens, it has no will of it’s own but rather, it is surreal in nature and carves it’s own path. It flows unbroken in it’s formation and tends to drede the direction it happens to be leading. Blind it is.