Of memories bright and dull, Of imagination terrible and great.
That is to say, of Humanity.
There is here an imperceptible luminescence of thought; the whirling of memories that allow me to travel through time like the masters write of.
Once there was an all perceptible pain of thought: the whirling of memories that allow my soul to bend and break like the poets write of.
There is here a stumbling obstacle of thought: the whirling of memories unseen that speak my greatest fears like the forsaken write of.
Once there was a universal gift of thought: the whirling of memories not come that speak the unknown beauties like the young at heart write of.
I have come to feel that I am defined by these.
Not by life.
