I have given too much, to too few in my life. I have only asked to have the mirror, so I can see my caring return. Not to be as it was, but to see as it is. This has not happened. It has always been absorbed like the rain in the desert. No flow of caring, love or the thought of it, has ever touched my heart, nothing but the pain, from the knife of deceit, is what I know. Men, of pain to the heart, do not speak of this, it is said, it will show the smallness in the man. I think not, for when the heart speaks, the soul has told it what to say.

D.