I don’t feel like a have a lot to offer the world. What can I do? I’ve only so much. My much is little. You may read what I write when I say “have a wonderful day” and think that I’m a friendly person, but I’m not. I’m actually quite reclusive. And my pen gave me quite the webbish cave to hide in. And so I hid. And I kept in hiding. All the while, writing. All the while, brewing. Letting a certain poison wash me daily as I wrote with my pen.
I’ve questioned my right to live. I’ve questioned whether I’ve anything to give. Anything I make, I ask you to take. To like. Because that’s who I am now. That’s about me. That’s what I’m about now.