Writing is the dragon that lives underneath my floorboards. The one I incessantly feed for fear it may turn and devour my ass. Writing is the friend who doesn't return my phone calls; the itch I'm unable to scratch; a dinner invitation from a cannibal; elevator music for a narcoleptic. Writing is the hope of lifting all boats by pissing in the ocean. Writing isn't something that makes me happy like a good cup of coffee. It's just something I do because not writing, as I've found, is so much worse.
That thing we'd been searching for: nameless, faceless, shapeless as quicksilver -- it never existed. It was a mirage. We were chasing a ghost and we knew it. There was no destination, just the journey; just the moment. It was all about the kick of the ride. You stomp on that damn accelerator and hold on for dear life. All you can ever hope for is one wild, drunken, kick-ass, mother-humper-of-a-ride. And it was.