The inspiration is to an author like a heart to a human.
It keeps him alive, makes him feel.
The ink of his pen like the blood in someone veins.
Within a never ending rhythm he covers pages over pages.
Sheets of paper like show through skin.
Every single scar a deleted - but never forgotten - world of characters.
So he goes, feels the breath of nature and talks to the starlight during a warm sunrise.
The dust of an awaking city and the breeze, which floats through skyscrapers canyon, trickle onto an opened book.
He comprehends the things at the moment and takes them to infinity.
Holds the beauty in eternity, just to let it change right in the next instant.
He builds thousand of worlds in the straight lines and inclined planes of letters,
in the deep of a book and in the corners of your mind.