I'm a writer. Words flow through my blood. Brevity is a luxury I can't afford. I am cursed with a silver tongue, that transmogrifies to lead in the quickest of ways when I'm faced with the prospect of real life. And the silver linings in real life line my tongue and spring from my throat in a nascent tale dancing on my lips. The music of the world, of the human race, is my pride, my joy, my unbridled passion. I have lapses, true, but in the face of these and other obstacles, I have the ultimate recourse. To find a warm place, settle in, and bleed ink. Smoking waxen trails of wandering fire fill the air around me, in this world of my making and breaking. The mulling of wine and words completes this fullest of lives. It is this moment that I live for, and this is that which fills the emptiness that falls upon me in the dark moments. This is the spark and the dream and the reality I want to live in. This is my memoir, unwritten and carved into my flesh and bone. The thrumming chord of the muse chained to earth as she strains toward the heavens. She lifts the earth higher, towards the holy places. She lifts the earth, and I am the chain. Ever-stretching, ever-straining, ever-shining, ever-turning. I am a writer. These are my words.