May 31, 2000: Prayer begins with a pen
I often never know what I’m going to write. I place pen to paper then lean to the left or right—whatever falls out becomes my path. Most of the time, I hear what’s to be produced only seconds before reality sinks in—I’m living proof that the best idea’s come when you allow yourself to make mistakes.

A mans thousand thoughts—not at all close to a sliver of the suns rays nor a single corner of an empty field after a heavy snow storm. A mans thousand thoughts—over a thousand days, devastating, heart pounding—I can’t, I can, I’m running away on a bike built for three to fifteen or as many personalities I wanna be. I giggle, I laugh, snort scratch out, re-write, paint over and empty everything living deep within. A mans thousand thoughts—nothing compared to God, look what he did in seven days.