I spent many lonely nights walking beneath the moon’s watchful beams dropping petals from a rose as breadcrumbs from a loaf carried by one small boy. I was waiting for someone to appear out from behind my favorite tree with promises of rescue and a happy, loving life. All the while the wolves sang to me through the night their most precious song. Listening numbly, I never once realized, that person could be me. Writing has become simple. All I must do is sit behind a keyboard or paper and bleed. Afterwords, when my hands are stained with the memories of what I did, and the mop ruined once again, I uncover the mystery I never knew I had. The mystery of life and of why I live.