Fantasy sings his song to me, and I, his grinning captive, sit to dream. But soon, too soon, I wake and burst the spell. All gone but for the memories of memories already forgotten. I hope to sing his songs for you once I have rested from my sleep. I’ll piece together what remains, and find the magic words that hold the key of what was there in the darkness long ago. The pen must bleed upon the page; its course, that strange and jagged path, none can foresee. Pilot I am, I’m lost but for the shining stars above.
None Can Foresee
Tale Told 