Now prostrate here upon my bed, with morning’s glory shining in upon my worn out head, I am finally free. Free to share my written words, my casual forms of pleasure, that speak of love and other things that I have treasured. Finally free to reveal myself of all the joy I have uncovered in my public rooms. The book that weighed upon me for so long has risen from the depths of desired song with dark and loving thoughts that I have scribbled in the night. Now the book is done, all is won, my words are clear, there is no anger, there is no fear, just hallelujah from the rooftop. The secrets written down; a gift released. Now I sit in silence, listening to life. Life, the truth of it. Now plain to see, I linger with my sober mind. All the scrambled thoughts are scribbled out within the book. Time grew desperately upon this rock while I loitered. I’ve left it there. Seeking the sincere, to place my soiled wisdom down, upon the ground without a sound and leave it there. Just as time is left to slowly decay upon this rock. I am left to wonder if all the folly that I have scrawled upon the page is not mine at all. Are they the words of some other self, an imagined friend, a shadow cast against the wall? Be it mine or his, the book is done.

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

 – Ernest Hemingway