I do not truly exist. I am the figment of the writers imagination. I
am a character that the writer expresses. I am a collection of events
with a single voice. The darkest moments of despair and the greatest
moments of personal triumph are here before you on display.
I am words. I am simply multiple arrangements of the twenty-six letter
alphabet designed to generate such an array of emotions that the mind
is left to filter through the cacophany of sensations and come to it's
own conclusion.
You are the one who shapes your perception of what is and what might
be. The amazing thing is that this is not a thought. It is simply an
observation on what you may be thinking. Words can't think.
I must go. The machines are once again clouding my vision.
That Beautiful Black Man
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