Whose breath blew out the light within my brain?
Art is ours if we labor and wait. I fear the emptiness of coming attractions, how will God ever touch me with immortality if I am not deserving? When I was young, I lived too far ahead, high-visioned, unafraid, Now I'm older, am I not a piece of art myself? Tell me not, I long to be, In mournful... Sign in to see full entry.