I grip the unturned storm in my exposed palm. Trusting fate to the whims of a menacing horror. I find peace through pain, atleast the dull ache that hides behing seeing, behind sensing the truth. Would truth lurk still in corridors if I turned on the light? But the dark is my thinking space, my brooding, where thoughts drift haphazardly together, perhaps to reform new ideas, and crush the old. Will I grow old and die, still strangled here by the poigency of my own worries? There are always more questions than answers at hand. Below the surface, the ice, the skum, the pocket lint, there is truth. If you discard them that unsettle and discomfit you you are no better than the uneducated. But even worse, for you have spurned the light and saught the dark. The darkness, where thoughts collide and form something a little bit new, but still with a faint glimmer beneath of that which was. Is this just a vener or am I vaccilating from study? I guess I'll never know.