What days have passed when pen and paper were pined for. Days when volumes were scribed upon the walls of a fractured mind. Where shadow and light were one, and fancy and phantasms roamed the halls of a maddening maze, side by side and stride by stride with fact and fading reality.
What days have passed when hands rent hearts in want and desire, pacifying pain in the dreams of what were and could be.
What days have passed when sleep and wakefulness were known only in lexicons, and the borders of dreams were dissolved in the deluge of denial and dementia.
What days have passed when hands touched and eyes found faces, if even their own.
What days are yet to come when thoughts are given leave to be born and life be lived and scattered screaming scrawlings no longer are escape from one’s self but sojourn to one’s soul…