Writing is the time capsule of humanity. Burrowed from her heart, the author lays to rest past failures, dreams, and private stirrings deep in the earth. As the end of a chapter is drawn, her hauntings become hidden, detached in a piece of forgotten communal ground. Life works to form the next isolate shell while the rudiment, long forgotten, blossoms into a garden of undiscovered treasure. The jewels of understanding unearthed by society awaken a perpetual cycle of death and life that neither the author nor reader can escape.