I do not know why I look to the south where it is not about to rain and wish to be there, but then again, why do I crave water? Why do I struggle to reach the sun yet my roots are about to wither? Why do I want to play in the whirlwind while my throat is this parched? It is this hunger for new roads that wakes in me. It is lust for the sun and infatuation with the moon that leaves me drunk. Where art thou, my lovely quilt? Come out before the perfect sun is covered by the clouds. Show up before the mighty wind sweeps all the pollen away. Stab at the paper, my dear pen, tear the pages apart, wring the quilt dry. Put a permanent tattoo on the bland pages till my hands tire and bend. Write on, talk on, shout on, for in you I find freedom and escape. In you I am mother Theresa, a prince charming, a god. Stab on, and write my chronicles. Tell them all of me, a villain, a hero, a living ghost, a dead human being. Write of my exploits, both true and false. Write of my conquests and my failures. Give me hope again, give me life. Come into my hands and I will tell the story of a deaf man and you will hear it. I will speak of the blind man and you will see him. Stab harder till the pages scream. Scrawl over and over again till the howls rend the night air. Let the pages moan and blood fall over the floor. Milk my heart dry and thresh my mind till you get out every single grain of thought. I surrender to thee, mighty pen. Carry me on your broad shoulders then set me on the mountain of dreams. Carry me over the valley of the shadow of death till we reach the fountain of youth and childhood pleasures. Take me away and do whatever it is you want with me. Caress me and whack my back. Sting me and soothe me. Write till the pages fall over the edge of the world, and I fall over with them. Write on, mighty one, stab on. Kill and create, birth and asphyxiate. Consume it all in your hungry fire for you are mighty, mightier that the sword, mightier than even he who wields thee.