Time and place and space rearranged, I'm existing out of phase. People look and speak to me unaware of my imagery. Atoms floating yet contained in form, illusions that I'm whole and warm. Magnetic fields binding me, born without a symmetry. I can read one's beauty from silhouettes passing bye. A skill I've learned in jealousy with love's unrealized.

No one knows I've lived a thousand years. No one notices I cast no shadow. That just goes to show we judge a book by it's own cover. Never listening to the words, never seeing what's in the man.

Unexplained phenomenon or alternate dimensions, only walls seem to detect my biological infractions, Once you've lived a thousand years anonymous to spare their fears. You come to find that man can be oblivious to others needs. Even my loneliness surpasses physical law. I must be emanating subliminal withdrawal.

The excerpts from this diary one hundred years ago, were written in ageless poetry and sung with haunting melody. These last lines were written before he faded and died. And as I read them profoundly, one soul for him did cry. "Some people reach for the light, but not I... for it passes right through me. Light only let's us see, and it's bound to make us blind."