We write. We scrape. We crawl through the ethereal abstract to return with fragments.

We create.

We strive to make a thing so shiny and perfect it reflects the brilliant perfection of the undone. And, in so doing, we utterly fail to create.

We are left adrift. Purposeless.

We must not only dream, we must create. We must be brave. We must dismiss phantom adversity.

We must realize the beast we chase is ephemeral and fleeting and only shadows flickering upon the wall, without substance, with all the weight of the world.

We must gather the scattered bits of memory and broken bits of dreams that drift into the daylight (eyes wide) moments of our lives.

We must provide focus. We must inspire.

We must be brave.

We descend into the depths. We dredge up hidden bits of ourselves and nail them to the walls of the world for all to see.

We are magicians of the macabre. Fresh flesh to old bone.

We are chasers, questers, cresting each horizon and scanning the distance for the next.

We are Pellinore and Guinevere, King and Consort, Lord and Lady.

We are the flaming wreckage of Camelot. We create our own Myths. We splice the genes of long dead dreamers.

Boundless of imagination, bound to our desks, our fingers dancing like daffodils shifting in the wind.

We write. We scrape.

Until the words escape the page.

To quest again another day.