ᴅᴀɪ

every soul is a mystery, a puzzle box of hopes and wants and dreams, and all the pretty little pieces of the vast illusion we create to shield our inner selves. in the end, the colors run and bleed together, and finally fade into the dust. but the evidence remains; captured images and writing and the like.

and so, who is more real, more permanent? the one who gazes into the mirror, or the reflection locked inside?

Devon Pearse, A Lighter Shade of Gray