It is the question that drives us.

"Where's the Poet? show him! show him,
Muses nine! that I may know him.
'Tis the man who with a man
Is an equal, be he King,
Or poorest of the beggar-clan
Or any other wonderous thing
A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato;
'Tis the man who with a bird,
Wren or Eagle, finds his way to
All its instincts; he hath heard
The Lion's roaring, and can tell
What his horny throat expresseth,
And to him the Tiger's yell
Come articulate and presseth
Or his ear like mother-tongue."

-John Keats

Fall.

“And in my darkest night,
If my memory serves me right
I’ll never turn back time,

Forgetting you but not the time.”

Confess your sins.

I am an addict of self evaluation and reinvention.

Will-o-the-Wisp

It is the self that you can never see,
The fire you seek in your reflection,
It is all that you are that is not flesh,
It is me.

The innocence that breaks

In the morning I don’t love you, I love trying to get you.

Sacrifice for me, and I will want more – the insatiable animal thirst in me demanding you, one piece at a time, until I have nothing for you no longer remain, and it will fuel my hunger anew.

Give to me, and I will smile and laugh and thank and use up and cast aside. I cannot love what you give me unless it’s important, I cannot love you for copies, for things that aren’t rare: I cannot love you for what you can give to another.

Die for me, and I cannot love you but for your spirit, and the shadow which you leave behind – love contained by the walls of memory suffocates and dies.

Love me and run, and I will run too, after you and to the ends of the earth to capture and inhale the addiction carried with the breeze. Lead me up a mountain, and it will seem to me a stroll, as into the very air will be no obstacle.