I write because I am terrified: Time, the ultimate element, collects the slivers of the untold, the shy whispers of narratives, into an effaced epoch of the insignificant: Time will say, “Here are the forgotten” and we will never be more than the “This is what happened”, our voices one, impersonal, conjoinedly distorted. I write because I have to write. I write because to write is to enter into a world where I have control and no control. I write because I learned to write. I write because I am learning to write. I write because there are parts of me that I have to write: Those that cling to me but can never be seen–Those that pervade my dreams with malice, cruelty, with the unloved broken images–the merciless god part of me must write itself, to fight back against time–to survive–but I write with the acquiescence of defeat: Time is the ultimate warrior. I must write because I must listen to the imperious voices of my many-merciless-selves slashing and thrashing about in my being. They must get out, inked, and told. I write because I want to show that I can: That I can do something, that there is more to me because writing allows illusion, self-aggrandizement–but the Art neither accepts humility nor hubris: It only accepts what is. I write because I like to lie. I write for liars. I write for those whose sustenance are lies.I write because I cannot not write. I have to do it. I have to do it. It magnifies your voice; it lets you sing even when there is no audience. It lets you sing to yourself: In a fanatic mad lullaby of “I am Important. I am Important.” I write because I have to say something because I cannot shrug a question. I must answer. I write because I like to bend reality: I am this, I am that, but I am neither. It feeds my fantasies. I write to escape. Escape. Escape. Escape.