There was a time when as the stars passed by in the night outside my window, I would stare out
Broken heart; and tired mind.
Useless body, set out to find,
A solemn place to belong,
Where you can dance, and write your song.
Where worries past, will not follow,
Torture you, obsess and swallow.
Where what you grow into; matters more,
Than what you were, from long before. …
In the words of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, “The small details, are by far the most important.”