We are but a grain of sand passing through the hour glass of infinity.
A blip on the radar, the floaters on the eyes of earth.
If someone happens to be extremely lucky, maybe the missing puzzlepiece to a bigger picture.
But being a legend doesn't mean you
still live.
The incects on the windshield, hold no more importance then those caught by a hand.
We hold ourselves so high though in the long run we all fade.
Some shooting stars, others a ink smudge on a letter to a loved one,
And a few the coffee stain on the kitchen counter that never goes away.
Idaho, April.
