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  • He lives in sunlight, he loves under moonlight, and he celebrates under neon or fireside -- situation depending.

    But he writes in darkness. He writes in the solitary abyss he makes for himself. He used to wake with the dawn and pound away the keys; but something has stifled him. A year of exploding out of his restraints and pushing his limits, he finds it necessary to revert back -- sometimes for days -- to a state of personal isolation. Free of external distraction, free of the world in motion and the living legend he has fooled those around him with. The freedom of simplicity -- just him, and his words.

    Sure, he takes with him comforts and talismans in his journey to oblivion -- the gentle sounds of rain, the faint echoes of musicians. But these are his tools, his foci, his instruments in this timeless ritual of gazing into the darkness and reflecting back onto himself.

    In here, he is alone except for his thoughts. He does not sit idle in pity; far from it. He travels to strange canyons and endless deserts painted in the purple of dusk. He loses track of the world around him, and is immersed by his daydreams, his fantasies and the dramas that play out before him. He watches his characters interact, as if he was some invisible observer to their world, and gasps at the events as they unfold before him. He is no God here; he is merely a witness.

    His mind is endless; his worlds countless. The stream of reality may pass by this stone of a man, but his soul is above it, outside of it. Behind this door isn't a man alone; it is a universe in motion.
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