“Some times, when I can’t seem to come up with something deem as being the norm for writing a piece, I abandon myself to whatever my mind commands me to write, and where the work takes the form of a stream of consciousness piece.”

—Why do you love reading fiction? 
—Because of time.
—Time! What’s time?
—A fiction.
—A fiction! 
—A process.
—What’s the process then?
—The writer thinks. The writer writes. The writer crafts. Time. Then, the reader reads, and, it’s a story with a start and finish, compressed into one whole book. Time.
—No. There’s more. There’s more. Tell. A book. A creation. A subtle aesthetic design.
—Then there it is:What if we can’t seem to feel
That these filmsical skies seal
A spell with which we can’t deal
That’s hidden under the glow of the sun
And the glow of full moons,
Of this one thing that wants to be seen
But still remain lock away behind screen
And where one can only feel its eye upon us
When attuned with it with all of our senses
With all of our mental capabilities
What would have you done
If ever you were all alone
Inside of a cold and darkening void
Accessing remotely to everything
What would you have done?
That is my question, to you.