As of late, I have been flushed with literature inspiration. Novel ideas, segmented sentences, fluid rhymes, have all flowed through my brainwaves crashing into my skull and then retreating with the tide. In a days time, with all my thought's, I find myself, in one moment, looking out from the tallest tower in a castle from a land far far away, then in the next, I'm smelling freshly cut grass from a field that stretches out past my 19th century home. Rather than pulling out a pencil and scratch-piece of paper to write down these rivers of fiction styles, I store them. They begin by resting in the back of my head, making home with other melancholy thoughts, and then begin to move slowly through my blood stream till they've made permanent residence among my bones and arteries. Someday they will be made into ink and be stamped on pages tied and bound with a funky black and white cliche cover of a tree resting over a riverbed or of a sunset in the August afternoon; but for now they will remain imbeded in my flesh, creating in me a charcter and personality that can only be described through words.