And My Problem Was That I Always

I Am Invisible, Understand, Simply Because People Refuse To See Me.

That Which We Remember Is, More Often Than Not, That Which We Would Like To Have Been; Or That Which We Hope To Be. Thus Our Memory And Our Identity Are Ever At Odds; Our History Ever A Tale Told By Inattentive Idealists.

I Was Looking For Myself And Asking Everyone Except Myself Questions Which I, And Only I, Could Answer.

If Social Protest Is Antithetical To Art, What Then Shall We Make Of Goya, Dickens, And Twain?

Words Are Your Business, Boy. Not Just The Word. Words Are Everything. The Key To The Rock, The Answer To The Question.