Meaning Grows In The Mind, But The

That Which We Remember Is, More Often Than Not, That Which We Would Like To Have Been; Or That Which We Hope To Be. Thus Our Memory And Our Identity Are Ever At Odds; Our History Ever A Tale Told By Inattentive Idealists.

I Am Nobody But Myself.

That ... Is How The World Moves: Not Like An Arrow, But A Boomerang.

The Clock Ticked With Empty Urgency, As Though Trying To Catch Up With The Time. In The Street A Siren Howled.

Meaning Grows In The Mind, But The Shape And Form Of The Act Remains.