Dream with me. Press yourself into my mind by easing through a creaking door with hands against the wooden panels and back against the frame. Slide inside to escape reality by diving into my fantasies or rationalities. This subconscious world’s fair game. The floor is void and the ceiling vast in this room of personal inclinations towards delicate hopes or nuanced depravity. Perhaps the walls are restricting or transparent to the touch. Where in this expanse of attitudes and world view and philosophic ventures will you search to find the essence of who I am and what I mean to tell? There are corners and crevices and gaping canyons of intellect and inspiration to make the journey worth its exploration, but be leery. You may discover a potency for persuasion hidden as a heady atmospheric drug forcing you to alter your perceptions. I am sitting in the middle of the room, my brain, expressing enticing nibbles of the apple held in hand. This same me whispers stories and conducts visual dreams for my conscious self when sleeping, and once you enter, you cannot return to who you were. The effect is mutual. Your risk is my reward for in delving into my natural secrets you take what I have proffered yet infect my outlook with residue which collects as dust. Some influences cake my synapses more thickly than others whose worth is not much in comparison. At times, I may wipe away the stain; in other moments, I preserve the pleasure by imprinting my own fingerprints upon what is left behind. All this to find the perfect words: words of power and life, art and war, truth and lie. All this because silence is death, so I refuse to remain quiet. I write to clarify and intrigue through what is concrete and abstract, preferring the latter, but acknowledging that not all who squeeze between the door and frame can handle what’s inside.