If only for myself.

You can only, in the end, write about the world.

The world is pretty big, and it has a lot of stuff on it.

The world has, for instance, nuclear warheads. And nuns, and prostitutes and racists. It also has doctors without borders, orphanages, clandestine distilleries, pawn shops, rain forests, pandas, machine guns, poets, ink, love, lovers, love [of the long forgotten kind], love [of the secret kind] and love [of the motherly kind] and love [--as in in-love--, of the falling, non-negotiable, irrational kind].

The world has seasons, past, rocks, nails and snails, seagulls, people who write constantly and people who write sporadically.

It has people who miss writing, and miss it dearly.

There are some old, rusty, classic artefacts in the world. Some appear to be old (or new) comic books, half-remembered dreams, conversations had in cars while it rained about both mundane and transcendent things. But they all have in common this ethereal quality, this effect in the mind-- a capacity to remind you that you are, in fact, also a think that is in the world.

Sometime I fear, that despite my many and heroic efforts at cynicism I am still at heart a hopeless romantic. A fact that I consider my gravest flaw of character, as well as my greatest strength.

It will be I know, in the end, my doom. Not a bad kind of doom, all things considered.

I will write.