…the writer, given his age, felt that it was now or never. To grab hold of his dream of creating a world, defining an adventure, exploring the deep, deep crevacis of imagination — to paint pictures with words….
This day had began just as all the days had over the past ten years. He awoke to a new surrounding, attached to a new person, waiting on light to give him a glimpse into that person’s life. There was always
His only means of time telling were the rays of light coming through his window. The window…the window. It represented hope and the proof of an existence beyond these four walls — the four walls that worked his sanity like a master carpenter. Carving,