Life returns to fleeting moments that must be gripped tightly for fear of losing them. The nostalgic ache that trembles your bones and shatters a sane mind brings back a handful of happy memories, which I can’t quite grasp the details of, to the point where they don’t even feel like my own. Are these memories mine, or are they simply figments of my imagination? I think humans are saner when they are lonely, and maybe that’s why I feel saner at night. I suppose that's why my thoughts have taken free rein, lost in the eloquence of silence…

-Anonymous