If a mind consumed by chaos, finds its solace not in the comforts that surround it, but in the ephemeral skies of imagination and impossibilities, what do you call it? A dreamer or a deluded poet?Do I know the answers to all the questions, or do I know nothing? I wish there could be an answer to that. Or perhaps I remain the very same answer I seek outside? A chaotic enigma. But is it even necessary that all questions must have answers? Sometimes unspoken sadness speaks for itself and so do unanswered questions. Or maybe you can join me in answering this great perplexity. :)