Many people come and go in one's life, as many people come and go in this adventure (I call it so for lack of a better term). Lost ones, lost to me, lost to their magick. Some grow into magick, but there are those that have always embraced magick. When one of the latter turns from what they embraced, sorrow strikes those who are still mired in it, those that feel alone again without anybody to share that magick.

I speak on a somber note because it has happened to me. What I would give to have someone by my side, to share some of this burden, to not be so alone in this crusade of sorts. There was one once, who's magick was different from mine, but in essense connected to the same source. When you spoke magick with him, it was if it emanated off him in waves. To utter his name would only burst open the scar.

Why is this important to what I'm telling you? To demonstrate how ever-changing things are, how in the events that will happen, nothing will ever be consistent. One person could be enwrapped in the magick and then you turn around and they vanish. You weep when they do because you are alone, you weep when you see the state of flux that surrounds you, you weep when you see that you are the only one who's static and will be with this until breath no longer passes your lips. So it is with me, weeping for the lost ones.