The fact that people are already reading and loving something I wrote is still hard to believe.

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.

The night that seemed endless hours before is now slipping through your fingers, ticking by as it falls into the past and pushes you towards the future.

He forgets that he was someone's dream once, himself.

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

It's a wonderful sort of feeling when people want to spend more time in a world you created.

The finest of pleasures are always the unexpected ones.