[b][i]
I have absolutely no Idea what my font choices are going to yield. I hope for something that matches the writing on some level. You know what I mean. The over analyzed artsy crap; that some how is associated with the inner workings of the human psyche. A knowledge system based only upon what is decided by us to be the truth, I guess. The truth is a little strong. It is much more vague, or perhaps complex than any statement can attain, or ideas even can attain. All of this, this world as it is perceived, merrily an idea. Ideas change. It is indeed true that we know nothing. What we think we know is what we have decided it to be, and nothing more. After all, we are individuals are we not? We, most of us, think for our selves. Yet we must pass through this reality. A construct unto our selves. Where we are left with the ability to imagine; from there we relearn
to create.
Night once again settles in on the man. His middle-aged troubles of a childhood lost, are shackles. Rusted now and breaking, freedom seems at hand. He would hope. Yet even in rust the chains are heavy. He has yet to truly find himself, whatever that means. A life no longer shattered by self inflicted emotional esviseration; he knows that change is at hand. The next day brings the chance for employment, and a possibly better life for a child; a mighty tree in need of nurcherring. The chance for better than what the creator had. Alas, the day has yet to end, and the truth must be faced. A sacrifice must be made, in order to obtain the ideal, and thus his dilemma. Damage the bond, or make another way. After all, the world is nothing more than an idea. Ideas change
[/i][/b]