I write to express, like a speaker transforming distorted sound into audible rhythm; I too want to harmonize my internal distortion. I write to release the coiled pressure of a firing pin aching to discharge; contemplating my creation, tool of security and protection or weapon of destruction. A contradiction in terms, the ambiguity of perception. I realize it's all determined by who's clutch I'm in at the moment. A warrior for hire, or maybe just loan. I write to be recognized, to exist apart from visual perception and concrete reality. Only an idea, a conception, a cogitated labyrinth traveling on the back of wind waiting.

Not to be heard, only to be understood, contemplated. How else does one really live except on the minds of others.