The words flow across the page.

Who will hear them?

Will they make a difference?

Will they reach anyone?

When Pink Floyd asked if there was anybody out there, was this what they meant?

How far is our, or my, reach?

Will I tickle someone's consciousness in some way?

Will it be good if I do, or very, very wrong?

How far does our story-writing karma reach?

Shakespeare's work, though he is hundreds of years gone, still touches us today.

Do we, I, have any chance of a fraction of that reach?

And if I do, will I look back on eternity and be proud of my echo,

or want to shrivel into a ball in a corner, cringing and crying at my words?

God, please let it be the former, for I love my family so.