These are the years of days of weeks which have passed and yet to come. For my thoughts project words and literary creations which are written read collected and forgotten. My being and life and yet no death stand cold and warm in your hands of uncertainty. From tomorrow to yesterday to now from then I arrange such thoughts to be my own in a way I create an understanding of the illogically correct. Narrow paths coming from wide angles with circles to be drawn by an eraser. Only waiting to go down must we first go up and sit on which is not there but here not now. Glancing forward in the opposite direction hiding only to be seen…these are The Years of Chaos.