Of the writer. . .

His emotions masquerade as imagery and colors. His every spacing is a hint, and his selective phrasing is a window to his psyche. What he doesn’t know is that he is an exhibitionist. He wants you to know him and he wants you to touch his soul. He wants you to live through his perspective and survive his circumstance with him. The picture he paints in your mind is simply an abstract of his, and his every quip is a Freudian slip! And the prose his fingers dictate are his coveted baubles of truth. They shine and glisten for you, but for him the most as they are not his possessions but his children! Most certainly his pride and joy, as he covets in their creation and he seeks their furtherance to the ends of the earth and more, and had his voice the power it would echo until it mingled with the trumpets on judgement day. And in his head is a whirlwind, it is a typhoon, as his perspective however unasked, jumps like a flea in a dog pound, pouncing again and again on his sustenance, what he calls and conceives as beauty. And his beauty will be your beauty, and this beauty brought him to the keyboard with this will to create, and expound upon the responsibilities his soul has imposed upon him, and this keyboard is his soul’s outlet, the means of his contribution to the most revered collective. And he would have your contribution, as he knows that all perception is art, and art is his favorite pass-time, and that if you should lend yourself to him, it would be holy. And always remember that he wills and wants you to become him by his works, to understand him, to see there is light in him, as you can’t miss the dark. He wants you to justify his will to be justified by his craft. And he requires that his work be buried with him and wrought on his tombstone as it is his legacy, his most fortuitous circumstance was his ability to create, and his will to be considered and contemplated on more levels than just his ability to smile and talk, but his ability to intimate, emote, and invoke immortal truths in the name of the furtherance of the people. And he revels and reviles in the fact that god knows his mind, as he wishes it was shared with someone who shares his propensity to error, but at least it is shared utterly during its own time of existence; and fiery will to breath and conceive. And truth will ever be his calling, and even his death bed will concede to his brilliance.