The final ember of the fire. To get up and into the current. Up and away from its source. 8220;I would like to be everyone, a cripple, a dying man, a whore, and then come back to write about my thoughts, my emotions, as that person. But I am not omniscient. Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing-Sylvia Plath.

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings. Of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,. We have heard, and what honor the athelings won! Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,. From many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,. For he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,. Till before him the folk, both far and near,.

The Cryptic, Poetic, Cynical Theater of the Mind. Friday, September 17, 2010. Saturday, July 22, 2006. When your back is turned. When its not their turn. Oh, how quickly they forget. The cost of the day.