you make words sing on the paper. your words come with their own rhythm. not a drum beat, no, no: it's the roar of wind. it's what you hear when you fly.

i look for your words in every place, and in my frenzy, i find pieces. i see your sentences in steinbeck, i see your dialogue in mccarthy, i see your soul in hemingway. and through each work i am refracted, transformed. a self-fashioning of sorts, but dedicated to another.

and in the end, when i roll to a halt, i have changed, somehow. i still feel the same, but something's different. maybe no longer a seeker; instead, creator.