They say: we, humans, were born for reasons then blinded for a reason was I? or, muted for a reason was I? intricately, not to see the beauty of the world's wonder not to sing the melody of sweet rhythmic dulcet, yet precious, perfect unique design they call I am, God's special one. I can't see I am, still I can't say I am thus, still I can't completely sense I am. I move, yes, with freedom, a figment, though yet imprisoned in an eggshell, my deadend grave I had never.