I have my words. They're all I need. The promises, the seething rage, the blubbery sobs. Everything can be described through words, some silky, some thick like syrup, others slurred with a cute accent. I don't want anything more than a writer's mind, a mind that picks everything up like it's second nature, which it really is. No regular person can find the bird's nest in a tree, or even give a damn to look up. No, they're too engrossed in what they have to say.

No one can take this away from me. It's mine- it's how I live, how I want to live. I want to live pouring my soul out onto the paper, a vessel for any expedition at all. Go ahead, laugh at me, take everything I've got. Everything but my words.