his shapes of words are not just collections of time passed...each one of his stories means something...his words carefully shaped to fit into something poignant...like part of a puzzle...for me...each and every one of his words transmutes something damaged...align something almost perfect...
in the middle of him...i see myself...he numbs me to everything outside of us...he sharpens me to everything i have kept...inside of me...
i am inundated with all of his words...within a flash...they fill me...to the point where i'm unable to recollect them with a realistic mind...instead...i am an articulation of this moment...standing before him...with my heart outstretched...slowly...then suddenly...i am beyond...
he is the gust of wind on which my sails rise...and he is the metaphor of every story i have ever read...or written
