And in my novels I live many lives. Substitutes of spontaneity to replace a dreary reality. How I live for those inky black words and kaleidoscope colored experiences.

He accepted new ideas as readily as new trends. Knowing those worth it would last and the lessers will pass.

I don't know anymore, whether it's a curse or a blessing to see the beauty in the ugly. Growing up simply and getting old complexly. I now see reason behind sin, and love behind pain.

The scribbles in my notebook are a reflection of you. Every line holds your name. Every paragraph a feature of yours I love. Each page is a memory of moments that took my breath away. Of times when I laughed more than my lungs would allow. My notebook is full, but I always knew only one would hardly contain all of you.

I think I feel it
The nimble, fleeting emotion
That novels and authors desperately
Try to convey in ink and heart blood
Whose shadow festers in the loins
Of teenagers and their insatiability
The hidden thing none of us can see
Yet we all disagree what it looks like
If only it were love... simple, infinite love
But this was more, this was bloodshot madness.

She was small. Her shadow moved in the dance of chaos before her as the inferno blazed behind her and licked the sky with its many tongues. She clutched an indistinguishable toy with both arms tightly. Her face was serene. Her eyes shone with courage more immense than the surrounding flames. She was small, but at that moment, I've never seen a bigger person.