I write things, in the middle of the night, under stary Oklahoma skies, under the guise of anonymity with the realization that hardly anyone in my life knows about or cares. 

Sometimes, I stop in the middle of the day, on an old backroad, and scribble fragmented phrases on napkins I keep, just in case. 

I bare my soul to a inanimate object in silent hope that I can somehow find myself in the words of my heart-speak. 

At dawn, I exhale my dreams into a page so that I can not forget or deny my subconscious. Because the heart has a mind of its own, and I dare not forget that it speaks. 

To whom? I do not know. To myself, to undercover writers, to shame-filled sinners, to dreamers, and society’s shunned lovers? Perhaps, because, I am all of these. 

Therefore, I will pour out from this overflowing vessel, so that it may be filled again and again to overflowing. 


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