I may not fit the common definition of enjoying life. I don't write because I'm intelligent. I don't do it for praise or recognition. I don't weave grim stories and speak of hope because of guilt or obligation. I do it because I love to write. Because in the salty, bubbling depths of my melancholy I've found an inferno billowing up in the roaring dark. Life sparks from the crevices, soaring skyward like stars. With my pen, I dream of pulling them down, leaving them behind as dried ink.