I feel like a man out of time; not quite here, not quite there. I have thoughts and revelations, capricious notions scattered throughout a contemporary wasteland. I am told I am clever and witty. I merely adore the arts. The beauty inspired by others inspires me. It wishes me to compose my odd prose. What better career, in an age of doubt and atrocity, is there than to be surrounded by pure awe? To hear an acoustic riff that sparks the electric soul to soar into a nostalgic cloud is an experience of humanity; to see the brush strokes of a master as they depict the sadness and happiness of a life is an experience of humanity; to smell the vast wafts of spices, sauces, and herbs is an experience of humanity. They all propel the soul into a stratosphere of transcendental elation. I want to be a writer, not because I believe I am talented or am deserving of the career, I want be a writer because it allows me to share a piece of these beauties. It allows me to be apart of something greater than myself. I perceive the world differently because I see the beauty of it. The horrors are masked, eroded, and non-existent in a land filled with art and culture. The written word is my avenue and the pen is my Mustang…all I have to do is drive.