Would that I could now see my silk-enveloped angel as I remain in stillness, pen in hand and contemplations wild within. I wonder how my face might look to you in this light, is it decent enough to be smiled upon in love? But upon the parchment have my words become still, the chosen ink a pool of darkness reflecting little in its accumulation, my muse aloft in slumber, mind devoid of inspiration. And how is it that my body should remain so animate whilst in contrast frozen thoughts lie dormant in the brain? A sigh would cause the fragile light to shudder, creeping away almost in permanence, though from the brink in a moment's time, it is a wonder as it brings its resurrection to fruition. And would that I could hear those words, soft like feathers falling from such lips as could curse as well as bless with so ethereal a kiss. How uncertain it is that is my future, but how set in stone my history. My existence hanging in the balance, based upon outside opinion and experience, as well as my reflections' believability. And so I am rendered helpless as I lay pen in hand but with no poetic raptures to display. I fear that my stillness of mind and state have left me to contemplate my solitary misery. And would that I could clarify myself to you without bringing question of my reasoning, but of course to know my heart so truly as desired, would require break from logic and all sanity.