It is a strange world in which we live, where whispers pound against our ears as thunderous echoes. Oceans of thought press their weight against what is valued, and what is held true. Visions are the keys to a cross-section of another point in space and time. In a world where childhood exists on a carousel, it was our choice to stay or leave. Was it our choice not to take a ride on the horse? Even as time lingers on, where do we remain? The only things we must know are: who we are, and where we came from.

The failure to speak croons its sweet melody always slowly, softly, never retreating. Some things are worth fighting for. Writing beseeches the soul to divulge its careful secrets.