I’d be comforted to leave this place, this life, knowing that I had carved off, out, all that I could of myself. I am not a martyr but I am a writer. I owe my emotions, my experiences, my observations, and understandings back to the elements of existence. If I am lucky, they will be reincorporated, at some uncalculated-molecular-energetic level, back into the perseverance of life. Words are only whispers in the storm, lost in an echo until the storm becomes a breeze and the poetic hearts can hear again.