Friday February 17

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.

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