No reason. At least not that I thought. A tidbit on a strand of time lingering in the air. Auras as tangible as music. Reality is what we make it. The lives we live are constructs, some more durable than others. I only ask that you are honest with me, is that too much? Excavating feelings from the half spoken thoughts of uptight individuals. Extrapolating meaning from the scraps of conversation I’m fed after everyone’s finished noshing. Searching for a small purpose in the greater scheme of stupidity surrounding us. Am I the idiot for wanting a more open mind. The scars make me look like Frankenstein’s monster. Makes me feel like a failed experiment.