As darkness drifts into yet another sky, and the painted sunset disappears from my eye, I wonder the reasons and contemplate your plan, for making me such a poor and pitiful old man. The greatness that I dreamt of, in my much younger years, gets lost with the sun as it hides from these tears. My reason for existence is pure fiction at its best, yet greatness in my thoughts that make me feel blessed. Reality hiding away like the sun in the sky, and with the morrow I might understand why, that my life revolves around the fiction from me, instead of the truth that most people see.