Birthday candles rising from my own seed sought and sown, that talent coin, the spires of my dream dominion raising sprouts of bat signal spotlight towers from it which blast new year’s iron rods up through the New York haze. I know that it might not have seemed like much of anything, my telling Musette that I’m going to be a writer, but she and I have differing ideas of what it means to be one. I cannot deny, however, that her idea holds water, because, while I am here constantly and consistently pushing content into the internet, I am not hitting that one target that means more to me than anything at this moment, the one that signals release, the one that opens the prison doors. I am not doing the best I can to sell myself. This is where our ideas merge, the hope for salvation. She doesn’t mind me cranking out words, or what the words even are, so long as they have an effective point that lives up to the promises that I have made to her which I have backed down from recently. It’s no wonder she’s disappointed, and it’s no wonder that she has placed her hope in another. I’m the one that persuaded her to do it. I sold her away from me.