Strange as it is, I crave the beautiful.
Strange how it's always cloaked in darkness. Strange to be alive.
Strange to be alive.
As a child my thoughts were as heavy as a fallen sky, held captive by the
vague memory of an ageless life. And
looking at my reflection
in the looking glass,
I screamed, "This must be madness!"
and thought, "Surely this won't last!"
I was ashamed of the things I
harbored inside. There was no release.
I made believe imprisonment and hid
the key. An act of drama, I suppose; or of fear.
How can I say there was no fear?

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