Inside Every Human Being, There Is Unlimited

Echo, The Death Of A Sound That Had Nowhere To Go But To Come Back.

We Read So That We Can Be Moved By A New Way Of Looking At Things.

Like A Kid Kicked Out Of Class. Humiliated And Free.

So Much Wanting And Longing, Clutching, Desiring, Passion And Hatred And Terrible Need. Here, Death Was Suitable, There Was Room For It, The Grip Of Life's Relentless Urges Slackened, Replaced By This Icy Simplicity. This Wasnt Her Death. It Was His. That Was The Sad And Honest Truth. Though It Would Stay With Her, It Would Be More Like A Black Onyx Heart On A Silver Chain, Worn Privately, Under Her Clothes, Close To Her Body, All Her Life. The Guilt, The Beauty, Everything. It Wasnt Over, It Had Only Begun. Well Ok Then, Okay.

Without My Wounds, Who Was I? My Scars Were My Face, My Past Was My Life.