We All Create Stories To Protect Ourselves.

Here Then At Long Last Is My Darkness. No Cry Of Light, No Glimmer, Not Even The Faintest Shard Of Hope To Break Free Across The Hold.

I Think That's What Finally Stopped Me. I Slid Right To The Edge. My Legs Were Hanging Over. And I Could Feel It Too. I Don't Know How. There Was No Wind, No Sound, No Change Of Temperature. There Was Just This Terrible Emptiness Reaching Up For Me.

The Greatest Of Love Letters Are Always Coded For The One And Not The Many.

Here Then - The After Math Of Meaning. A Liftime Finished Between The Space Of Two Frames.

The Thread Has Snapped. No Sound Even To Mark The Breaking Let Alone The Fall. That Long Anticipated Disintegration, When The Darkest Angel Of All, The Horror Beyond All Horrors, Sits At Last Upon My Chest, Permanently Enfolding Me In Its Great Covering Wings, Black As Ink, Veined In Bees' Purple. A Creature Without A Voice. A Voice Without A Name. As Immortal As My Life. Come Here At Long Last To Summon The Wind.