I live with an assumed knowledge of self that like Hamlet keeps me in a catatonic state gilded by fear. Too true to ignore, such contemplation may turn the anxiety of living into art and make a sullen madness beautiful if sustained in the static magic of the written word and not within my flesh. These lines of thought born from a cry in an atemporal, distant realm seep into my flesh to find meaning, and so, it moved through me onto these pages: an imagined apotheosis howls to echo out of time once again.