Words never die when seen by a writer's eyes. They are a guest of his conscience, quickly flowing through his soul. He becomes familiar with their letters, they take over his senses, and with them he senses the magic in everything around him. The word transforms from a light, beloved guest into a queen with presence and influence. I see beauty in the tender part of the image of everything around me, no matter how abstract it may seem to me. Something that cannot be precisely explained, resembling a transparent glance from my heart at the things before my eyes, their meanings rising to my imagination. I see beauty in the small details, in a person's glance to themselves, in the cold hand as it flows into the warm one, in the compassionate tone, in the friendly voice, in the proud look, in the garden of my heart, in the patient soul, in the familiarity of the eyes, and the words left therein like a hymn. I see beauty in the edges of open windows as I lie reading a book, my eyes passing it over, glance after glance, and my fingers embracing it, touch after touch. I see beauty in the new word that has been hovering above me for a long time, but something similar to it pointed me to it, so I picked it up.