Potting around the country on a shoestring budget and a bag filled with dreams, I was met halfway along the the road to manhood by a man that pointed to the South. He said nothing and pointed for an uncomfortably long time.
Then he bent down and began to write in the sand at our feet, repeatedly… write, write, write, write, write…
I write because I love to.
You read because you want to.
We live because we have to.
And we love because we need to.