What makes a reader?

What makes a writer?

What compels anyone to the love of language?

Why do we not sing?

Why do we not play?

Why do we not paint?

What leads us to be so loyal to our craft?

There is a man who seeks new methods of relaxation, a man who can so easily slip into another man’s life.  There is a man who is enthralled by the mere re-telling of high tales.  A man who is quite an observer. A man who is logical (in one sense or another) and observes his plate well.  A man whom rests his faith on an influence and the good faith of escape.  A man who rests in the lines of paper, whether they be marked by blue or red ink.

He stood up,

With a vigor comparable to that of a bear.

In a rush, blood began to flood his veins.

They pulsated, and wound his fist back to a tightly-coiled projectile.

And eventually when the sun came to its final moment, he understood.  Long after his body will rot, his pen will continue to spill ink.  Long after he dies, people will continue to live.  Long after humans die, things will continue to die.  What could mean more than that?