One Forgets That One Is

Prometheus, Thief Of Light, Giver Of Light, Bound By The Gods, Must Have Been A Book.

I'm All Soils West When The Earth Lets Go. I'm A Thousand Julys.

Some People Reflect Light, Some Deflect It, You By Some Miracle, Seem To Collect It.

For Some Reason, You Will No Longer Be The Person You Believed You Once Were. You'll Detect Slow And Subtle Shifts Going On All Around You, More Importantly Shifts In You. Worse, You'll Realize It's Always Been Shifting, Like A Shimmer Of Sorts, A Vast Shimmer, Only Dark Like A Room. But You Won't Understand Why Or How.

So Often I Wonder Whether It Is My Right To Capitalize, As I Feel, So Often, On The Grief Of Others. But Then I Justify, In My Own Particular Thoughts, By Feeling That I Can Contribute A Little To The Understanding Of What Others Are Going Through; Then There Is Reason For Doing It.