i know a man who steals. slowly slipping treasures into those darkened pockets of a trenchcoat with no soul. tumbling down deeper, further into an endless abyss so that if i ever may find him and reach into those pockets my fingers will reach out and merely graze the felted sides and the emptiness below. he will flash a crooked smile with eyes full of mischief and simply laugh at my endeavor, "girl, those arms of yours will never grow again never be able to grasp all that you seek." and as tricky as he may be he will fail to see the strength that hides in this heart of mine. a spirit that tears the stitching of a conniving crook's pocket from his very own coat. everything of mine once stolen -- my happiness -- my imagination -- my willpower will soon be returned as it was many years before. the man's name was age.