We're all born from dust. From dust we are, living in a fallen world. Knives drawn, backs presented, forked tongues, imperfection. We cant make a single day without longing for greener pastures. If we cannot fulfill our greatest dreams, we're all destined for disaster. While you might as well be dead to me, I still hold onto the memories. You hold the pictures of us closer to the flame but you're still convinced I'm the one to blame. This is the problem of pain. Dear God, show me there's more to this than what may seem. When I lay my head to rest, what will there be? A picture perfect paradise or will we fade to a black screen? Will we ever grasp the concept of true morality or will common sense lead me to not believe a thing? I won't believe in anything but me. We're not the authors. We hold no pen. From dust we are, til dust we'll end. And I know I'll find the answers. Tragedy has crippled me. If there's a God out there how could he let this happen to me? Tragedy won't cripple me, tragedy can't cripple me. In a world that we call our home, we now know nothing is our own.