The life and soul of a useless tool are but many things lost to vastness and immensity of our lies to ourselves and lost in the hopes and dreams we all posses for one another, we place the blame where is should not belong when we by our own choice walk each our own paths and therefore create a road by which to walk and sit, where it takes us we control but little but enough to sway from light to darkness, from happiness and sorry, a writer, a poet, an artist, an actor and a musician, what are these but the mortal flesh of the emptiness from which the power to create imposes itself upon? They are what they are nothing more, flesh, bone, blood and marrow, in that much they can die and be killed but with this power infused within them they live past this mortal coil and state to see nothing themselves but to open the eyes which they themselves once had shut. What they do is never more important than the fact that they do it, for in the denial of this inborn power find only the emptiness of the outside world in which they see others making beautiful things and thoughts of wisdom or folly but they see it all, for that is all that’s left to them, to watch.