Writing for me is vice. Vice and temptation and seduction and lunacy and limitless travel. When I write the pen becomes a conduit, spilling soul onto paper. Imprints of me scratched into hundred sheet composition notebooks. Little black books with mirrors inside, windows showing us reality. The closer we stand to the mirror, the less the reflection can be distorted by our own desires and biases and fears. The more I pour into a poem or story, the more I see myself in it, unashamedly splayed across the altar of my own work. So before you read, hear my solemn request. Open, judge, understand, accept. For what you see is the truest presentation of me I can ever make.