We digress, all of us, to a certain ascertainable state of cognition in our lives. There, in the space of time which could be prceived in contunity as the letting go of things we should not let go of, feeling that certainty fade as our hearts melt, we wonder past the stars and the cosmos.

They placate the avant-garde hipsters with stray curls and humanity; yes. In many ways, we are alike. But not in the ways that count. Not in the ways the world shall remember my face and not yours. Not in the ways you could achieve.

I have not digressed, nor will I. Yet my father, the man who gave me a reason to maintain, to break free in all manners and axioms - he was not given the choice of following a dream. He gave that up so I could learn the easy way.

I decided at the youngest age I could determine as young that my life would be dictated by nothing. It might exist only by the prose I sink my fangs into, and expand the feeding vampirism to all those who wander with a purpose, wishing and working so they might share in the immortality of fiction as an extension of my being.

That is how fiction works. We are anamnesis; bound to unforget the reasons why we have yet to live, when truthfully, we're a symphony of walking corpses waiting to be animated.