So many ideas flutter around my head each night. The sleep induced thoughts that drift from the deepest mesh of the brain. My thoughts are never so pleasant as to present fields of daises or butter cups, but are pleasant enough to bring fourth barriers to the monsters, or if barriers are a scarce option, a blade to duel with.
I use these thoughts to create a manuscript. A masterpiece of language and captivating speech, a volume of adventure, of love, of life. Perhaps there is a hero, or maybe I am that. Sometimes there are villains, but I can play this part just as well. This gripping manual is perspective view of my understanding of reality, so I don't expect to make sense.
My opus is a work in progress, a never ending story. Another tale gets added to the anthology and makes it harder to conclude. However much I want the ending to come, I am never provided with the resolution. Some things aren't meant to end. Some things aren't meant to be written.
Unfortunately, this is the book I will never write.
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