Someone asked about the book the other day, how was it going? I try not to laugh. There are days when I just write. There are days when I just don't. Not that it's not there. It is. I know exactly how the story goes. I don't know why someone would be interested in my life, but they are. Sometimes I think that when I put the pen to the paper it taints it. Every memory, word, desire, fear, all of it, tainted. Like a photograph loved to well. A part of me says "no, they're mine, you can't have them." And another part says "this is why I am, who I am, how I am. Every part of me, condensed." Yet I still do not get why they are interested. My life fascinates me. Sure, it may seem dull at times, with long work hours and too much to do in between... But it's the inbetween. I suppose everyone's fascinating. Think of the people you know, the ways you know them, the ways you love them. And how is the story going, really going? Well...

You may have my words, you may know my dreams. But you cannot have every peice of my memories. They're mine dammit and I don't want to share.