Behind the snowy prospects of your eyes, ranging like mountains with onyx studs at their peaks, lies only everything, space and light mingling and stretching, blowing, glowing away to an event horizon where I hover and vanish. There lies my true home, my yearning for it beyond measure.
The more I search within for my motives, the less I know of my self; every explanation, each answer, painfully wrong and incomplete. Why do I do what I do, where is the cause, where the effect, of promised liberation? Where hides the sneaky sculptor who casts my stony belief in this make-believe world?