richard_

Fingers are very strange indeed. I often wonder how it is they manage to do the things I evidently request of them to do. Is it them that decide what it is I am to write? Are they merely outlets of my hopelessly tormented, endlessly turbulent mind? Or do the words just fall from the heavens like rain drops, down to the earth like leaves. Tumbling along from forever, until finally finding a page upon which to scream like beautiful flowers. Given no other choice, but to bloom into a world that may never understand their overwhelming need, just to be heard.