The finest of pleasures are always the unexpected ones.

The most difficult thing to read is time. Maybe because it changes so many things.

I keep waiting for things to get back down to whelming, but they stay at overwhelming.

I don't think there's anything wrong being a dreamer.

It is perhaps both a blessing and a curse that fictional worlds spring into my mind nearly fully formed and it takes quite a while to sift through everything to find the story.

We must put effort and energy into anything we wish to change.

There is a movement happening, a quiet one. A low-profile, low-resolution revolution. Comprised of writers and dreamers, of guerrilla artists and thought-ninjas. Those with something to say. They communicate through text inscribed on true public spaces, rather than blogs and forums. Choosing fewer words, even without being bound by 140 character limits. Using ink instead of pixels. Sending messages in living, breathing space. Pens scream louder into the void. Even if permanent ink is not aptly named.