When all else fails simply grasp the pen and create life. Thus begins a stream of consciousness, a running brook of thoughts; emotional thoughts anchored in the cerebral by a pier of reason and a chain of despair. What really am I typing? What really will be the outcome? A visceral accomplishment or simply an ink-stained illusion that can be twisted and turned by the optical until its spirit is etched in the mind and resurfaces in the deepest of dream-sleep. In the lonliest of moments it encircles the throat, pressurizing the adam's apple into the sweetest pulp as the juices are drained away even as the breath of life slips silently away. Metaphors to describe what? Similies like paintbrushes in the hands of an old blinded artist, depicting life as seen only in the first four years of life. Forever painting innocence as seen through the eyes of children, even as the bones grow brittle from the hammerings of life and the breath shortens from the strain of inhaling foul air. Alone or...