I want to write. I want words from lands full of lush-white silence and bleeding-green language.

I want to disappear and not have to explain why.

I want to know that there is some meaning to the pursuit of truth, to wanting to do the right thing the right way with the right intention.

I want to be left alone with my contradictions.

I want my spirit burned clean by a pure blue flame from the skies.

I want love.

I want all the pleasures of music.

I want the warmth of memory to flood my insides and ooze out the pores of my skin.

I want to be reassured that intelligence can be gentle and uplifting; that wisdom is not boring, that it's worth all the delight and the pain of experiencing experience at its minutest; that ignorance of the heart's voice is the most vicious and vulgar of crimes.

I want a solitude that will chant life into my ears.

I want conversation that will make me want to come down from the mountains.

I want a consciousness that will rise clean above the surface and see what we all need to see, feel what can't be felt.

I want to be able to walk and breathe and run on and on and on and on.

I want to live.