Writers spend a lot of their time in dream worlds, conjuring up visions, vistas and worlds that somehow correlate to the descriptions of their favorite authors. There's always an adventure waiting to happen around the corner, always a stranger waiting to be enveloped as a passionate lover, always an earth shattering moment waiting to redefine the meaning of a floating existence.

We wait in the darkness for someone to switch the light on. Our conversations are peppered with symbols and hidden meanings and jokes shared in the arch of an eyebrow. Someday. Someday the book will be released from the tangles of worldliness and coffee cup stains and take on a life of its own and breathe the way we never did, and suddenly our names will be taken in the same breath with the pillars that we admire.

We wait for epiphanies. And we write by the light of oil lamps just to prove to the world that we are, in fact, living images of the hopeless romantics we refuse to see. But destinies are choices and ephiphanies are created. So here, for my hopeless love for an epiphany, and for the love of all things written, I welcome you back into my world. I think I can see the light.