I wish there was a way, in this big, unbecoming big world to have a 'pathy' of sorts; only writers to writers.

So many people out there, so many of us, closeted. All suppressed. All turn to writing. And there is absolutely no way I'll ever know what they write. Shouldn't god have made a secret society of writers, shouldn't god have given us all a receptor of sorts. Where every time something is written, the rest of us feel it. And none of us should know who, because I feel like that would be too much drain on our mental potential, but the work itself, how nice it would be, if I could feel everything that an anonymous writer writes. I would be reading forever, and maybe the world would be largely gloomier, we are all sad people, but maybe we wouldn't be so alone.

Where do they go? These beautiful, beautiful, invaluable thoughts? Will anyone ever find them? We all will die, what will happen of this cauldron of boiling, sizzling, ever multiplying, thoughts, that once were on paper, that faded away, and were once inside a mind, that turned to soil. What happens to you, my dear strangers, what happens once you come to exist . . . and wander aimlessly, invisibly, shyly. I cannot come to think, the next generation will take you forward. It is too much dependency on a species, I've come to decline in their prelude itself.

I think . . . my only resolve can ever be the fact that god up there, is a writer too. And us . . . god's nature to muse from. The ones left in charge, the water, wind, the salve ground, they blanket through this place we named Earth; absorb, make our phosphene thoughts a part of their body. Carve our wisps— our thoughts, that dance and jump. (They are swirls, curling and pristine) for god to notice, and preserve, and kindle; write.