the_frozen_state Death of a Rose I am in, it begs of me the answers to the questions of all. And I reply that all is nothing that I cannot achieve. It brings it's gifts, smiles at me and beckons, with that crooked finger. It makes me want to follow, and yet I don't, for something in me precludes my passage. It, or me, borrows this time alloted to the senses, begs that although a torture feeds itself, a chain breaks in another room. I wish to dance with others, never mindful of their past, considering only this projected balance. And in this I remain, And in this I regret, And in this I regress. The_Frozen_State 061122 what's it to you? who go blather from