On the paper they'll stay. When you long to relive a moment in time, open the pages, . . . Each letter, each moment belongs only to you. You wrote knowing one day . . . Sitting and dreaming . . .
Memories escape and often they fade . . .
Because you took pen and paper in hand and turned them to treasures. . . But rather they're scrolled in this dear, special book . Moment by moment . Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed. And in Your book they all were written, the days fashioned for me, When as yet there were none of them.