A journal. A pencil. A thought. A book. It whispers My name between the lines, urges for its space to be complete, and longs for My imagination to unveil, to construct havoc, to produce bliss, to experience sorrow, to touch death. Words are useless unless given emotion to support their structure, their implications, their talents, their abilities to generate feelings, thoughts; dreams beyond our average normal individual. I am writing, constructing, tearing down My letters, compressing all of them into one paper ball. Not good enough. Not me. Not Mine. I begin again, again and again before I succumb to Myself. My words. My journal. My pencil. My thoughts in My book. I reach My pinnacle.