Where are you hiding? Why should I lose my voice when you refuse to articulate? No stained glass eyes to stare into, no words to appease my eardrums, no soul to love. Then again, I do not love souls to begin with. I have nothing to give but my begging. My feet show that I touch the world, while the cracks in the sidewalks reveal that I do not walk as a saint ought to walk. Her hair flows much like that of rivers, as my head becomes washed up by the currents. You see, we are currently unsettled while setting off toward the future. As for my conscience, it rests in its berth.