A work of fiction, the art of expression is one that I can no longer successfully accomplish. The sojourn that is my life has led me to an existence has led me to a reality that relies on the ability to bluntly express what I think is. A fictional piece requires the author to search his imagination and with flowery diction and descriptive interpretation convey a picture –often on that is mobile. I now only know how to state is. An actor never lies. He simply states someone else’s reality. If the person is a work of fiction, that does not make his reality any more of less real. But you, my dear loyal reader, have not asked for my dissertation on life and the art of telling lies acting. You have asked for a story, and a story, as poorly written as you will think it is conveyed, is what will follow. This obviously isn't the entire first prolouge and first chapter... it's just the portion I decided to post today. His honey-kissed chestnut eyes stared at me through
Each one of those songs is important to me: Truth Is is for the one I may never get over; Ordinary People, the daily reminder that this is all a process and that the dichotomy of life is infinite: you just never know; Can't Wait the acknowledgement that when we want something, it's an immedate desire that we oft feel must be satiated immediately.