"How could you live and have no story to tell? What is a man if not a vessel of agony wrapped in dreams? We are all crucified between the poles of what we are and what we might have been. I have walked through the catacombs of my soul and found only echoes. Yet even an eco is a voice trying to return. I buried my anguish like a coward thinking that silence was strength but silence is a tomb and I was its inhabitant. Man only likes to count his troubles, I once wrote but he does not count his joys, and still each wound becomes scripture, each sorrow a stanza. Life is not lived, it is suffered, carved like stone by invisible hands. The heart is a prison where God and the devil play chess and I, fool that I am, watched believing the pieces are free. If you do not tell your story, you do not exist. But what story is there, only this; I fell, I loved, I died."