My dear Psyche, live life earnestly as you were ever meant to. My dear Psyche, I loved you desperately, but I must turn you to he who truly deserves you. The wind blows, we both know, but I once dreamt that it would never change. The truth grows in heroes who don't let simpleness remain their range. I'll be honest, I feel rather honored that you might Condescend to be my friend before the end. Now you alight. My dear Psyche, live life earnestly, as you were ever meant to. My dear Psyche, I loved you desperately, but I must turn you to he who truly deserves you. The one blow that I know that brought me to my better knees was that you didn't fall for me. The truth grows in heroes, and somedays it will sprout a seed in me, as when you speak so quietly. I'll be honest, I feel rather foolish that I might Once pretend that this would never end, and now you alight. My dear Psyche, live life earnestly, as you were ever meant to. My dear Psyche, I loved you desperately, but I must turn you to he who truly deserves you. I'll be honest; I always hoped a glimmer that you might need of me as I of you since we first met that darkest night. I loved you in your time. I loved your light. My dear Psyche, live life earnestly, as you were ever meant to. My dear Psyche, I loved you desperately, but I must turn you to the one who deserves you.

Tell me when my eyes will finally catch the shining one, and my soul's endless rebellion finally comes undone. Tell me when the sea will finally let the fire come. Tell me when the sun will finally meet the horizon. And when I fall against the wall, I feel so alone. And when my face dodges disgrace, little seems to reach my soul. Everyone will soon need another, and all will need much more than each other. Some of us will never find home... are we alone? Tell me when my eyes will finally catch the shining one, And my soul's endless rebellion finally comes undone. Tell me when the sea will finally let the fire come. Tell me when the sun will finally meet the horizon. And when I fall against the wall, I will find my home. And when my face is in disgrace, let your spirit spark my soul. Everyone will soon need another; all will need much more than each other. Digging deep, you draw my soul to home... I'm not alone. Tell me when my eyes will finally catch the shining one, And my soul's endless rebellion finally comes undone. Tell me when the sea will finally let the fire come. Tell me when the sun will finally meet the horizon. Tell me when the war is over, and all that's said is done. Tell me when the sun will finally meet my horizons.

Leah, I've spent these seven years awash in sweat and tears so far from home. See the conclusion as it comes; such disappointment rises with my self and with the sun Though our dreams may not come true, the substance of the insubstantial will someday bloom. Psyche, I spent so many years to learn you really weren't in love with me. Forgive me for breaking our two backs to bend reality just for me and this dead-end dream. Though this failure isn't new, the substance of the insubstantial will someday bloom. Everything that we have seen will fade between the evergreens of home. And all our paltry, petty prayers and thousand selfish cares will be gone. Father, I rise to fall and swift descend to soar directly towards my goal. Another insubstantial moment proves that substance is proportional to none--none but you. In this moment you renew, the substance of the insubstantial comes in view... Everything that we have seen will fade between the evergreens of home. And all our paltry, petty prayers and thousand selfish prayers will be gone. Everything that we have seen will die... 'till we're home. We're not alone. Take me home.

Father, the poet was, alas a scoundrel, so her mother grasped for calculated strength feared what the lack of self-restraint unfettered dreaming could concoct, but, rather than let it be locked, she took into her hands equations, seeking art and her own chance Drawing from gears and machines, she translated the facts into a dream. And she alone could look ahead and grasp transcendent reason for the common task. Proposing a machine, a man who had mechanic dreams gained a co-conspirator who saw more in his work. Rewriting the thoughts of a friend more than doubled his Italian and explicated how to replicate Bernoulli's art. Drawing from gears and machines, she translated the facts into a dream. And she alone could look ahead and grasp transcendent reason for the common task. And when her frame failed to rise her heart and mind refused to atrophy. as if a flawless system that would never see collapse... Drawing from gears and machines, she saw through the mechanics to a dream... Drawing from gears and machines she translated the facts into a dream. And she alone could look ahead and grasp transcendent reason for the common task

I’ve been thinking on an issue that’s been simmering at the back of my mind. How do our restrictive definitions of beauty relate to God’s design? I don’t mean to seem so confused, but in Paradise, how will beauty be construed? When all is perfect--all is right-- where will be the contrast that brings comparison into the light? I’ve been thinking on this some time, and I’m sure that we’ve all been on our minds all too much. And I trust that the choices of the righteous will align with the divine design. I’ve been mulling over melodies and discarding those that won’t please the crowd. In such an industry of rampant insecurity I hope that my songs are pretty, and pretty loud. I don’t mean to get this all confused, but in Paradise, how will “melody” even be used? When all is perfect, all is right, where will be the dissonance that brings a melody into the light? I’ve been thinking on this some time, and I’m sure that we’ve all been on our minds all too much. And I trust that the voices of the righteous will align with the divine design. No more: mistaking shadows as the source, writing love as just remorse, redefining God as just another recourse for empty courts. If there is “truth in beauty”, some absolute, how do we find it—and find its proof? If there’s no truth in beauty, and we’re all just confused, then why do we seek out harmonies? I’ve been thinking on this some time, and I’m sure that we’ve all been on our minds all too much. And I trust—as the Father makes me righteous, I’ll align… No more: mistaking shadows as the source, writing love as just remorse, redefining God as just another recourse for empty courts. I've been thinking on this some time. I've been thinking on this some time. I've been thinking on this some time. I trust, when the Father makes me righteous, I'll align.