Who am I, beyond a mindless dreamer?
Lost to Time, too few remember.
Echoes of the past, now long since fading,
and a litany of failures, my shame parading.
What am I? A painter, a poet?
Have I a future? Can I know it?
My path before me stretches forward,
but dark without a goal to move toward.
What is this life of mine meant to beget,
when my lot is to sleep...
To sleep and forget?

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Scarlatan, in the year 927 AF.