Madness crashes and retreats flailing about seeking a surface to grip inside my mind But those days are gone now, that exile has left me and I find peace Who was I then? Do you remember the man that once wore my skin? Was he a kind man? I am ever so practical I cannot phathom the stories I hear I see so much of what was and will be and wasn't and won't be. It mixes and melds it twists and grows and vanishes with each passing memory All that I know, all that I am, all that I can be is within these simple words "It is what it is, and it ain't what it ain't" | 