I always viewed the cold, white vista of a blank page with suspicion. Sometimes with an irrational hatred. From my earliest memory, I remember being offended by the absence of markings and would pathologically and obsessively scar its pure surface with a pen, crayon, or pencil. If none of these were available, I would destroy it, tear it into pieces, and crumple the remnants in my fist. 

Now, I quiet the storm with words. Thousands a day is what the page requires before it gives up its mocking tone, before it stops calling me worthless, wasted, tragic, lost. 

I hope that these words move you. To where, that's your choice. My only goal is that you are transported into the place between the ink, dragged into those little gaps, and imprisoned behind the bars of font. Just for a while. It's okay. I'll be there, walking with you, holding your hand, whispering in your ear. 

I'll bring you back. 

I promise.