Time arrives at the station
and hops off that train;
through clearing misty tendrils
one can but notice
its bright travelling cape.
( Who wears these anymore? )

Those caught in Time's gaze
are wrapped in a moment supreme,
where eternal lapses into present,
brilliantly, ever out of sequence; 
whose master conjures curiosities,
making this drudgery worthwhile.*





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Why is it that when a girl calls herself beautiful, pretty, hot, or attractive, it gets looked upon as being self-conceited?
Why is it such a bad thing for girls to love themselves and recognize their own beauty?
Why do we always apologize for things that aren’t are fault?
Why do we use mirrors to point out every single flaw instead of using them to recognize every inch of beauty that is in you?
Why do we spend all our time wishing that we were someone else?
Why do we hurt ourselves in order to be successful in the eyes of society? Why is it so hard for us to accept ourselves and know ourselves?