After looking over all of my previous writings throughout the years I can’t help but face reality. They are so scarce that it is obvious how much time I wasted breathing without writing. While most other things have been of little importance to me –I’ve always kept my writing as safe as possible from being lost or damaged. They are my children. I care for them like nothing else, save only the best paper for them, the choicest inks or graphite, the most beautiful books, sometimes showing them off, and sometimes giving them pictures to play with or my own sketches to keep them company when I am away. Memory often parades little broken pieces of mirror in front of me so I may never forget the times I crushed my children in the palm of my hand; when I burned my children that made me think of their fathers; the tears I wept for the children I once abandoned over a thousand miles away. But just like my unborn children: they are every one an abomination.