The Prophetic Minds of the Devout.

In love I cherish thee; from the plight of illness I grow wings, and from the fervent moments: the illusion of time standing still, and still, I wait for the days of age. And of those days of age, I rage that life's page hasn't flown forward to forgotten memories for nostalgic's mellifluent embrace.

But for now, the incipit: my obstinate oxygen, moon to the oceans, raison d'etre to perspicasity; how I watch you, get lost in you, find you then reveal you. And hence, I cherish a journey of knowing, of mirth, even your blessed re-birth. Come upon the sill, fill your eyes' desire until another hour, maybe.

It begins: the destruction of our daemons, the reason to create something truly beauteous.