So death too can take its toll and swallow up into their memories of light and shade in days when love grew at tables of memories. To sort the world in the mind is not the easy game we tend to play in books or at diaries of youth but in the heart of reason and honesty. Some great passion dwells inside the heart of an artist, to find the honest truth in the human being. Not like the trivial subjects who display masks for themselves and parade in words that fit their time, and wear the costumes of some group it thinks to belong to. Passion is death.
Passion is love.
Passion is sacrifice and expression. Passion is a colorful smell filling every cavity full of nothing with its smoke. So then I was selected. By him I got here, and I thank his faith in a not so brilliant kid. I did what I had to, and took my space to be brief and exacting.