I trace signs only sure that they follow patterns.
And those patters are what is my memory.
In memory I begin to sing aloud.
(But only within the walls of my mind. . .)
As the echo of my voice echoes from the inside-out.
I am - casualty to everything I've ever dreamed,
it comes trough the sound,
if - in place of my personal thoughts.
It here,
I've decided not to talk about anything.
The Symbols.
All the Words.
Many things are these.
Imagine, this proclivity I've lost for thinking.
No one else can hear?
The sound of a voice if it were lost in time -
is more a promise to make memorable.
Memorable the voices we make -
without it, I don't know a greater way of putting things.
Like if my voice were meant to make a difference.
I rather feel fully the information you feed me.
Because when I take the voice from within (me).
That voice will never be forgot.
(end.)










