I can’t help but wonder if anybody hears me,
for it seems my words echo in the cavernous abyss of space and time.

Is that really true, is that all you are?
The silence of the worlds screams and the embodiment of being alone?
No, you’re more.

But more than what? Nothing.
Yes, more than a hallow shell but what does that say?
Nothing.
Nothing at all.

If that’s all you think you are that’s all you’ll ever be.

You think I don’t realize the despondency in my own situation?
A realist may never be happy for a realist see the world the way the painter sees it.
With a keen eye and an understanding higher than any hallowed ground.
With an eye that sees the true nature.
An eye that sees the rose as not the wondrous flower
but as the vessel for the thorn, the bite, the sting.

A realist is suppose to see everything, not just what he expects to see.
So why do you see only the danger in beauty?
A hallelujah chorus is but a second handers gift to a world of expectations.
Who are you but a man, a modern Roark in who’s eyes the world is nothing?

Exactly.
Nothing.