In a few hours I'll be a legal adult. Weird. I never thought I'd live this long. Ironic, isn't it? *wry laugh* I've come so far... I'm a step closer to what I've sought for so many years... and yet I'm lost. What will tomorrow bring? A new age full of wonders and opportunities? Perhaps. Until then, I am, as I ever will be, a solitary poet longing for a lost memory... On another note, I found this and it made my day. My friends will understand. ;) "Can you pull in the Leviathan with a fishhook or tie down her tongue with a rope? Can you put a cord through her nose or pierce her jaw with a hook? Will she keep begging you for mercy? Will she speak to you with gentle words? Will she make an agreement with you for you to take her as your slave for life? Can you make a pet of her like a bird or put her on a leash for your girls? Will traders barter for her? Will they divide her up among the merchants? Can you fill her hide with harpoons or her head with fishing spears? If you lay a hand on Her, you will remember the struggle and never do it again! Any hope of subduing her is false; the mere sight of her is overpowering. No one is fierce enough to rouse her." "I will not fail to speak of her limbs, her strength and her graceful form. Who can strip off her outer coat? Who would approach her with a bridle? Who dares open the doors of her mouth, ringed about with her fearsome teeth? Her back has rows of shields tightly sealed together; each is so close to the next that no air can pass between. They are joined fast to one another; they cling together and cannot be parted. Her snorting throws out flashes of light; her eyes are like the rays of dawn. Firebrands stream from her mouth; sparks of fire shoot out. Smoke pours from her nostrils as from a boiling pot over a fire of reeds. Her breath sets coals ablaze, and flames dart from her mouth. Strength resides in her neck; dismay goes before her. The folds of her flesh are tightly joined; they are firm and immovable. Her chest is hard as rock, hard as a lower millstone. When She rises up, the mighty are terrified; they retreat before her thrashing. The sword that reaches her has no effect, nor does the spear or the dart or the javelin. Iron she treats like straw and bronze like rotten wood. Arrows do not make her flee; slingstones are like chaff to her. A club seems to her but a piece of straw; She laughs at the rattling of the lance. Her undersides are jagged potsherds, leaving a trail in the mud like a threshing sledge. She makes the depths churn like a boiling caldron and stirs up the sea like a pot of ointment. Behind her she leaves a glistening wake; one would think the deep had white hair. Nothing on earth is her equal- a creature without fear. She looks down on all that are haughty; She is queen over all that are proud."