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I Can't Get Enough Of Myself, And When The Nights Get So Lonely, I Get Lost Sometimes, But The Memories Remain, No Matter What Comes May, Nobody Can Erase The Bestest Moments Of Our Drifting Childhood

from In The Frame Of An Old Skyline Waltz, We Shall Take A Walk Through The Ruins Of America, As Light Starts Creeping Around Into A Vast Field Of Dust And Dirt by Wings Of An Angel

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Wings Of An Angel Israel

My own identity feels like a construct, a collection of roles and personas worn like so many masks. Who am I, really?

Perhaps in the end, we are all just characters in someone else's novel, puppets dancing on strings we cannot see.
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