People look at me as if they don't know who I am
and I concede, I know not them likewise.
However, I am confident in the things I know all too well -
The view from my window, the sound of my own voice
in my head - disturbingly silent. But it
speaks a language others do not ...
unexpectedly, for I thought I knew of others.
I now believe it is the only voice I can translate as of late.

My mother tells me I speak eloquently, my father,
and I, share voices. But these people, I wrestle to find
humanity in them.
I count myself as not with friends. I count myself with art
and with great minds, that speak a language too complex,
but what's an artist without a human voice?
It is not healthy, to dream of yourself
but it is all one can do when you know no one else.