In Memory of Imagination.

I remember being a child. I remember the bright white clouds and the sky arc above me. I believed in angels because noone had told me to doubt.
Where does it end? Why do we regret? The things that make us who we are are not the things of the world....they are the things that slip with somehow believed shame through the cracks and gaps of life. If we call it that.... where is your faith on what is possible? Where is your faith? Not a cold stone place full of stiff adults....No. But that bright dancing glowing iridescent feeling that makes you fly while you stand still.
There is always time to throw off the "grown-up", that sensible, cold, worldly logical being that strangulates your soul.
So when I find my time, at the end of my time: I remember Angels, I laughed and cried and lived and embraced life....
The story lives in the telling.
The little child is you and me, is all of us. If we want it to be.