skull, no book.

I think. And that is all I can claim to have done. I am too scared to make things happen. So nothing happens. I daren't behold responsibility, nor its potential. The cost of failures, apprehension and cowardice, is all the make of it. This is why I am no more than a sunny dreamer, somehow caught in the imaginations of the you, we, she, him, it... Maybe none of us actually matter? Because we are just dreams that were woven together by dreams; We are but a fleeting thought. Yet, what told us that the material markers of achievements could be anymore meaningful? Is it because the tangible are less susceptible to faltering? But then again, they are just memories we created, just words imprinted on stone - words that contain nothing but what we think them to have. Perception. Maybe our only purpose is just to sustain the illusion of it. And maybe that was my best excuse.