Isn't it strange how much of our lives are interchangeable, how little is truly ours. Someone else's ring tone, someone else's song. someone else's words, someone else's broken heart. These are the things we inherit by choice or by chance.

And it wasn't my choice to love you but it was mine to leave.

I don't think the moon ever meant to be a satellite, kept in loving orbit, locked in hopeless inertia, destine to repeat the same pattern over and over, to meet in eclipse with the sun, only when the numbers allowed.

Lullaby, Lang Leav.