The writer ever so cunningly spins his words into an intricate web of fact and fiction. He sits alone, a victim of his own mind, escaping reality with the stories he creates. Borrowing words from many a kin to him like food for thought he searches through the sentences left behind in old books choosing only the ripest words and piecing them together. he thoroughly edits his life's work to perfection. Taking in the beauty of each word as it rolls off his tongue and savoring each detail of his now finished masterpiece. This could be one or it could be several master pieces but you know as well as I that humans grow frail we fade like the fog that dances around the streets in morning light and disappears unseen by most and like a spiders web these intricately spun words will soon be forgotten only to be re-analysed and rebuilt step by step like so many before. Used to create something new from the masterpiece; remnants of sentences left behind in a little black book.

I just want to spill my secrets to everyone I see on the street, I want some one to listen. These unknown pieces of information seep from my mind, but where is my mind? and where is my mouth? I'm silenced by the weight of everything I want to say and everything I need not say. Some things i keep locked away and try to forget but when ones mind wanders it finds the deepest repressed memories.
It's not fair, to work so hard to drown these thoughts, these images for them to just as easily float right back up to the surface. Hanging to it like a film to forever underlay right below covered but yet so visible, so easily distinguishable.

A quiet place full of calm people working, playing chess studying.
There is something so securing about this place. not a sound but the rustle of pages and the short sweet whisper every now and again.
Why is it a building full of strangers and books can feel so much like home... so comforting?