The Flight
by Sara Teasdale

Look back with longing eyes and know that I will follow,
Lift me up in your love as a light wind lifts a swallow,
Let our flight be far in sun or blowing rain --
*But what if I heard my first love calling me again?*

Hold me on your heart as the brave sea holds the foam,
Take me far away to the hills that hide your home;
Peace shall thatch the roof and love shall latch the door --
*But what if I heard my first love calling me once more?*

"It always seemed to me that those who claim to know that others are going to hell must already be very familiar with the way to get there."
--Mark Landers

I don't believe I need to say anything else.

A tortured slip of my romantic nature continues trying to crawl back to the people and life I can no longer have.

There goes the downpour
There goes my fare thee well

There's really no way to reach me
'Cause I'm already gone

There's so many words that we can say
Spoken upon long-distance melody
This is my hello
This is my goodness

There's really no way to reach me
There's really no way to reach me

Vienna, by The Fray.

I have a fever.

I may add rhymer_713 out of curiosity. I'm interested to know what it's like to live with blindness in this world. I was not blind in the time before I was here, not until the very end. Lexi is not blind herself, which means I'm able to see when I'm close to the front. That's how I read, unless Remus is reading to us. I do prefer when Remus reads.

The only time I am truly blind is when I am away from the front. It is not always a deep impenetrable gray, I've had it lighten to seeing in grey-scale. The grey-scale never lasts for very long; I'm often plunged back to impenetrable shadow. My other senses are strong to balance my lack of vision. I can hear and smell acutely, and if I am careful I rarely bump people or other objects.

And I have my memories. I dream often of places I lived in, the sun and surrounding landscape. My inability to see does not sadden me all that much. It makes me nervous when I'm in unfamiliar places and require a walking stick and someone to direct me, but rarely at any other time.

When Misha was young his family went to their dacha every summer, and he and his father would take the nets down from the attic and try to catch the migrating butterflies that filled the air. The old house was filled with his grandmother's china that really came from China, and the framed butterflies three generations of Shklovskys had caught as boys. Over time their scales fell away, and if you ran barefoot through the house the china would rattle and your feet would pick up wing dust.
-The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss