1.1.2018      I am always here. Beholden to new and old years as if my skin had not shed a cell. Memory is like a film reel i have just freshly developed. Change cannot change me, see my eyes. I have written and written in my mind as if churning out memoirs of my own Gatsby. But they have been kept; save them being laid bare to give more stone throwers power. Not one inch is bruised. Not a crack on the porcelain. My flesh was always half injured grass as fielded you could ever find such stuff. Just as we are all smelted spelt without the masks we craft to negotiate place in this realm. A simple mask have i. Not pure. Wavering. Some blush. 

The inner glow shows brightly though, below both rouge and beyond the tufted tare. And i thank God in my being that it is there. Psalm 124 says that Satan has laid a trap; that no man can escape his jaws. Oh the flesh is scored! Now learn, accordingly, that luminescence is unquenchable and Yahweh is in me. There Satan so flounders. And so i will always be. Never snuffed. Never bruised. 

For i do not count my referred to self as flesh. Nor the made-up version of my flesh. I will always speak of "i" as fledgling. When eternity after earth is scrolled, comes, then my age will begin.

I am Lumiere. I am always.

Then sometimes here.