The ancient of days was ne'er made for me, yet ever I crave its wondrous peace...
Ancient of Days
Sonder for the Birds
Here you are to sing to me, and here I am, admiring thee...
Thin
Pluck a thin string into a melancholic tune, watch it grow in sonic synesthesia
Ever On the Wing, pt. V: Significance
Life moves autonomously // Life within and without me
December Rose 