Six pages double spaced. That is how I see myself. If there is any rhyme or reason to anything that I create, then let the beckoning call of the written word transform my current reality. Anything is possible in a book. Give me my imagination and I will deliver your dreams. Let me write a story about the way things could go, and I will give you your soul. Allow me to speak my mind and I will give you purpose, guide your mind toward the attainment of knowledge and I will entertain your thoughts, if only for a little while. There are certain things that are sacred, the depths of my heart hidden in imagination, floating in the vastness of eternity, proving my existence, allowing my soul to roar, rolling in chaos, flowing from my ears in a collaborative willingness of the heart. It is here that I allow for the ill seen, where I form the malice of scenario in your mind, hammering it into existence until the embers of steel emotion cool to the diffused vapor of forgiveness. This desk is where the formation of the soul begins but does not end. It forges onward toward life’s eternal end, the molding of the mind to the Earth, and the soul to the sky. Take caution for the need to tell is true purpose, yet the secret withholding of the heart scatters the trail of love unbounded and shared among those encountered. The mirror that many possess, but so few shatter keeps love for thyself, safe, careful, free of burden, of ownership, of the holy. It is here that the heart is minted, created to be consumed and devoured by life’s atrocities against the soul.