Take it all now, all this, all these frantic days battering against a keyboard to produce words. Just words, only words, what are words? And now there are no words to come to my mind that I will let slip from my fingers. Countless words are slipping though my head, don't get me wrong, but which ones deserve to be preserved on this typed page? Yet at the moment, it is only for me to decide. In the end, when an writer fulfils all the words on a page, if will be they that decided it to be so. But it will not be they who decide whether they deserve to be there. They decide the words, but they do not get the right to fulfil their deservance. Oh look, a word that does not belong here on this page. Yet now, it is a word. Technically perhaps not, but by the forces of nature, by the common people who really in the end make up this world, it is a word. Who then thought of brang? Why does a word have to be technical, in the dictionary, perused by scholars before entering this world. Have we become that narrow-minded that we as people cannot choose for ourselves? That we must follow those that have studied for years by privilege and right? I shall like to think not. By the common people I would say it is not so the case, but when someone of a higher profession looks upon the page that you have done, they will take out any things of a nature that do not belong. Oh why can't everything just belong? That is my internal, though now external by words, cry out at the world, at humanity, at morality. So maybe it's not that serious, but think of what you got from the choice of words. A little bit of lie embedded there perhaps, but does it matter? How much leverage can be taken to a word, and as always, who is to decide that leverage? In the end, it should be you, the reader and the writer, you. By all your means use your words, use what you have been given as a gift. Create, diverge, just use words not as a strict rule. For only you can create other worlds through your words.