And me, standing under the splintered night, catching fractured glimpses into the black behind the black, hearing the prayers of stars, the angry whispers of the dark summer night.Its voice cracks,on your name.My eyes close,on your name.

If you stand right at the edge of the night sky, some place where one o__lock leaves to meet two, the breeze will carry your words up to the stars. And they__l swallow your secrets until its time to hand them over to the truths in the sky- the ones that draw maps in the black. They carve their answers into the backs of my hands, the grooves of the words running deep in my palms.

Do we take less pride in the possession of our home because its walls were built by some unknown carpenter, its tapestries woven by some unknown weaver on a far Oriental shore, in some antique time? No. We show our home to our friends with the pride as if it were our home, which it is. Why then should we take less pride when reading a book written by some long-dead author? Is it not our book just as much, or even more so, than theirs? So the landowner says, __ook at my beautiful home! Isn__ it fine?_ And not, __ook at the home so-and-so has built._ Thus we shouldn__ cry, __ook what so-and-so has written. What a genius so-and-so is!_ But rather, __ook at what I have read! Am I not a genius? Have I not invented these pages? The walls of this universe, did I not build? The souls of these characters, did I not weave?

To sense the peace of extinguished passionHappiness in not knowing the ultimate knowledge

Sometimes life has a cruel sense of humor, giving you the thing you always wanted at the worst time possible.

I have been poisoned in your love and now I need antidote Jacqueline.L.J! <3