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July 26, 2008
Continously writing, shirking my actual obligations to put pen to paper and sprout words that have little meaning to anyone but me. ”Much noise, signifying nothing” perhaps, but I hope I'm not a writer who makes the term 'purple prose' come alive. To be able to write, to spout words that dazzle and deceive; I think it's what I live for. Somedays, the only reason I live. There are always stories in me, stretching out their tendrils and refusing to let go until I have told them. It would pain me greatly to die without letting them out of me.