Soft music traveling through inner workings of my heart, circulating itself into a special pathway in my brain.
Music no one else can hear or feel, because it’s inside of me.
Lines traveling down pages in many books, written in my own handwritten style of prose, verses free from coercive rules of rote.
Checkerboarded life played like chess on a hazy, hot afternoon, trying to collect as many aspects of it’s meaning into one gigantic volume, written for a world of people I will never meet or see.
Letting go of mental images – pictures I see in my mind – so they may be written down for posterity.