"Every author, however modest, keeps a most outrageous vanity chained like a madman in the padded cell of his breast."

What is this, prevalent, customarily dream? This thing... contributing to the conformal attempt of ways? The run-of-the-mill, as some call it, the habitual, card-carrying, sanctioned whole of ourselves? Or, is it within ourselves? I'd like not think. Is it really the norm of society? Truly it cannot be. Impossible inputs are somewhat possible. So why do we all do it? Are we doing it, do we actually carry this unlikely yet formal characteristic through our spines?

What is "normal?"

I'd like to think we are all different and the same. Different because we all differ-stating the obvious. But the same, because we all do. Huh, this place is built for us. But then again, are you fit enough?

I write through many forms. I have too many different things to sink upon, rest my mind upon that I've written with style and substance. You'll see.

Allow me to give you a little heads up. A preliminary introduction of some sort. I don't always speak with high vocabulary. I'll dumb it down. I'm a wit. A big wit. I make these things up as I go. But there's so much I would like to share with you, that I already have stored away some place(s). I'm going to let you figure out my interests. We could team up on the mission, because I don't know enough about myself either.

This could be a possible collapse on collaboration with my physically and mental being. This could be a breath of fresh air. This could be nothing. And it just adds chambers of imagination into my simple yet interesting life. Just another umph in my venting tornado and cheesy words of wisdom. Just a bunch of crap out of my mind, stories and beautiful pieces that could bring me closer to balance.

I've been reading blogs for years and years, finally, with guts, I created my own. Alas, I have yet to build this page into something keen and worthy.