…I know this deception well, writing (scratching, really) onto decaying matter, dead sinews of a tree, thinking I am capturing some pure essence of life, not just me, but all around me. I do nothing but observe, I, the weaver of these many threads of lives, otherwise unsung. I am breath of Life, immortality. I give voice. I represent.

Bullshit, I know. I only know my own heart, my own mind (and sometimes not even that.) Just ‘cause I read the scribbled thoughts of others, see connections, similarities, they aren’t necessarily there. It’s just a byproduct of how the human mind is built, to see patterns in everything, why we think household items and animals are floating in the sky at night, twinkling like jewels, why I think I can see her face in the clouds….