... some people are writers by circumstance.

some people are writers by trade.

and some people have yearnings. that erupt. that baptize the blank, breathing walls surrounding them, with violent instruction: 

kill whatever resists being captured in a syntax-lined cage.

cover your ears to those whose time is spent in the company of silence, who rise in loud, dull conveyances, declaring nothing.

take whatever parades of disembodied words you come across and lead them towards The River, 

spit on the seductive corpse of the complacent.

for these sacrificial people, restless oceans of verbal propositions demand religious attention to every detail; they are intimately bound to the execution-- few must live, many must cease their carnal knowledge of the condemned and willingly turn their backs from the comforting sound of old friends..

and these that write, soon discover, without the words to weep and reach, without the exact number of juxtapositions to taste and chew, with the unmerciful whip at the back of each exhausted verb forced to bury and give birth, nothing will ever lay still for them. or resemble what was formerly a quiet word: rest.

i'm going to show you the difference between those words that belong on wooden shelves and those that define the universe... ...