Through All The Windows I Only See

So Often I Wonder Whether It Is My Right To Capitalize, As I Feel, So Often, On The Grief Of Others. But Then I Justify, In My Own Particular Thoughts, By Feeling That I Can Contribute A Little To The Understanding Of What Others Are Going Through; Then There Is Reason For Doing It.

Even The Brightest Magnesium Flare Can Do Little Against Such Dark Except Blind The Eyes Of The One Holding It. Thus One Craves What By Seeing One Has In Fact Not Seen.

Even The Closest Relationships That I Have I Know Could Potentially Fall Away. That's Not To Speak Pessimistically Or Negatively About Those Relationships. In A Weird Way, It's The Opposite. I Value Them.

I Do Not Know Anything About Art With A Capital A. What I Do Know About Is My Art. Because It Concerns Me. I Do Not Speak For Others. So I Do Not Speak For Things Which Profess To Speak For Others. My Art, However, Speaks For Me. It Lights My Way.

I Believe The Structure Of 'house Of Leaves' Is Far More Difficult To Explain Than It Is To Read. And While I'd Like To Lay Claim To Some Extraordinary Act Of Originality, Truth Is I'm Only Taking Advantage Of Capabilities Inherent In Everyone.