Because To Write, One Must Truly Suffer.

There Was No Air; Only The Dead, Still Night Fired By The Dog Days Of August. Not A Breath. I Had To Suck In The Same Air I Exhaled, Cupping It In My Hands Before It Escaped. I Felt It, In And Out, Less Each Time…until It Was So Thin It Slipped Through My Fingers Forever. I Mean, Forever.

Nothing Can Last Forever. There Isn't Any Memory, No Matter How Intense, That Doesn't Fade Out At Last.

There You'll Find The Place I Love Most In The World. The Place Where I Grew Thin From Dreaming. My Village, Rising From The Plain. Shaded With Trees And Leaves Like A Piggy Bank Filled With Memories. You'll See Why A Person Would Want To Live There Forever. Dawn, Morning, Mid-day, Night: All The Same, Except For The Changes In The Air. The Air Changes The Color Of Things There. And Life Whirs By As Quiet As A Murmur...the Pure Murmuring Of Life.

Because To Write, One Must Truly Suffer.

Every Author That Creates Is A Liar;literature Is A Lie,but From That Lie, A Recreation Of Reality Is Born. Therefore, Recreating Reality Is One Of The Fundaments Of Creation.