There is a pain of heart when reading or witnessing a great work. A pain that accompanies the awe, even spoiling it. For what I see emanates so deeply and truly from my own self, giving voice to that which I seek and am and yet long for nonetheless. Yet, when I sit and begin to work, with anvil and hammer beside, I can have peace knowing I may surpass some in some regard, and looking back have given voice to the song that the other author has always sung through me, yet now created from my hands and sung from my very lips.