In stillness the silent wait . . .

. . . and in waiting, and watching without words, every spent moment seems to fall into nothingness. Though not wasted, these minutes of a life spent in quietude are seldom shared, for without communication there is no hope for testimony.

The desire is strong among these to leave a scar upon this world, some sign, some certain mark which will remain long after the creator is passed away . . . some record which will last, long after the author is gone. All men decay, all songs cascade . . . inevitably, inexorably, existence falls apart again.

And so, I come here, I come to raise my voice from deep within the darkness, in the hope that my words will last when I am not here to speak them . . . in the hope that the echo will carry them onward when my Voice has faded, much farther than I myself might ever have flown.