To write, and only to fill a void on the internet.
There needs to be constant supervision or nothing will ever be right. The details I once left must be buried on my site. That is the only was to secure enough proof of rapscallionism to settle the dreams I had before once and for all. Sometimes there is a good sister, made for me. I hope there belongs a great leader, teacher and mother in me. The good will of cloning is made ever the more chaotic by the fearless teachers of those Bristol community colleges. But these days I know nothing of Bristol. I only know of Summerland.
Perdition is a place just outside that gated community. The high clay walls block their foodstuffs and presume all the outsiders must be leveled and gained. Primarily I was awoken to this procedure before I turned the age 12. Before then I knew little else, but I wondered if somewhere I lay in a warehouse resting on vast acres of childhood imagination, alone with my thoughts and at peace with the world. This was quite how I would have enjoyed myself aging.
This detail has been left out, due to apple cider vinegar dripping from my tongue. These romances do not describe their people, nor the lost man of Summerland for whom this book is written. Peaceful resolution is a case in point. There have been many lost souls traveling this 300 000 mile north/south divide. The cactus tends to stick to my shoes in the summer. Perhaps that is why I left the woods. Somewhere I will live in harmony with myself and nature.