Let me reveal, if I might, betray, the locks that restrain the waters of my indulgence. On occasion my wish, my weakness, my opium, is to devour the uniqueness of the author. I must by inference determine your design, and sequentially discover the gulf of deviation through your own self providence. The dissonance is sweet to consume. The words you arrange in alliance to sights you have in your mind display more than any conversation might facilitate. Three thoughtfully tasteful words can keep me company for an age. In short. . . I love to see what makes people tick. Variety in abundance soothes the discontent of solitude. I am lonely for others that believe in dying only once, others who will arrange majestic compositions to honor the Source of power across the stars, others who long to see the same victorious redemption.
I enjoy writing immensely. I am still young in the ways of literature and fumble to wisely choose the proper diction not saturated in vanity and haught. I strive to present solemn urgency as my tone, encourage sobering reflection as your mood, and reveal my very core in my voice. I crave the parallel and the symbol; the simile and the metaphor. My style is like cooling tungsten which will soon temper, the crystalline structure beginning to organize into defined order. I am a child.
I begin to write but lack the patients to expel the ideas and relationships I so clearly see in my head. I can smell, taste, feel, and understand; but I have not discipline. I want to take you to the places I visit and bring you to the farthest reaches of my mind. I read your words and see a fountain of exposition effortlessly transposed onto digital parchment. I want to be like you. I want to write.
To The Very Gates 