How’s a man supposed to feel when he lives for nothing more than ends? His circumstances pull him one way yet something else demands.

Is he honoring the call? Is he ready to let go and fall so that he can be caught by forces he’s long forgot? To really feel in his bones that he was never in fact alone?

He’s got money, he’s got time, so why does he yearn for the sublime?

And when did it become so important to be right? When did his life turn into a series of fights

against the man in the mirror? How did fear replace love? When did the glove become life itself?

Is it possible to change while keeping everything the same? To hold what is no longer his without setting himself aflame?

Does he need his light to dwell in the dark? Can he put out the flame and follow his heart?