Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, but have not love, it profits me nothing.

Writings

Prison Dreaming

One closet hobby I have is making music.  I created this song about two years ago.  It reminds me of being so stuck in a weary routine that you forget who you are and what you were made for.  But in the middle of these times in our lives, we can still catch glimpses of our soul and our dreams if we listen.  Enjoy.  

Prison Dreaming
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