Everyone Loves The Dream But

Stories Heard But Not Recalled. Letters Too. Words Filling My Head. Fragmenting Like Artillery Shells. Shrapnel, Like Syllables, Flying Everywhere. Terrible Syllables. Sharp Cracked. Traveling At Murderous Speed. Tearing Through It All In A Very, Very Bad Inreparable 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.

Write What You Love. Love Will Hold You Through The Hard Times And Hold The World During The Good Times.

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.

You Shall Be My Roots And I Will Be Your Shade, Though The Sun Burns My Leaves. You Shall Quench My Thirst And I Will Feed You Fruit, Though Time Takes My Seed. And When I'm Lost And Can Tell Nothing Of This Earth You Will Give Me Hope. And My Voice You Will Always Hear. And My Hand You Will Always Have. For I Will Shelter You. And I Will Comfort You. And Even When We Are Nothing Left, Not Even In Death, I Will Remember You.