A poem lingers in the back of my throat; scratching my vocal cords like an angry cat.
When I close my eyes words dart across my lids like alarmed starlings from the cherry tree.
The rhythm of words pulsates through my veins, like the bass from a subwoofer.
I hear the echoes of stories wanting told, wanting an audience, needing out–into the open.
Every cell of my body wants to tell stories; for in stories we live, we learn, we join the past with the future.
The library is too huge, large, enormous, endless, eternal, ethereal, intangible to crasp but the stories must be lived.
Are you in the right book?
What story have you chosen?