For what do I write? Is it not for for love?—for love of life's beauty? Do I not write in search of the eternal within the ephemeral? Do I not write to extract, ever so humbly, but a sweet infinitesimal drop of truth’s nectar from the beautiful flowers of existence?

(the way my warm feet feel upon the cool tile floor as i take the day’s first steps, the world not yet awake)

(the way the sun sends its golden wash of radiance, fairies dancing to their silent winter melody, upon a frozen lake)

(the way my child, unborn and unnamed holds onto my one finger with his whole hand, with his own soft fingers)

Yes, it is for love; for truth. It is to distill down the wonders I walk upon on this earth’s visage, to grow to understand them all but an iota more. And so I write, as I always have, as I shall always. Let a new cavalcade of words bleed from my fingers on the dawn of each new day until that day’s honesty is milked, until that love is venerated justly. For while love grows fruitful still in my fertile mind, I will seek its truth. For this, I tell you, is why I write.