I am not really affiliated with the furry community and have this profile just to view certain artists. However, I do like conversation and I am tolerant of most things. That is not to say that some things do not enrage me. No one's a saint. Over the years I have not commented, posted, favorited, or done anything worth noting. But, times change and I think we all have an inner creativity worth eventually realizing. I draw heavily from online influences such as Weaver and less understood "artists" like Emily Youcis. I enjoy writing and am constantly vigilant on my "great work" that will perhaps give others an appreciation of not just myself but from those I've drawn from. There is a "great work" in all of us; but I think that some of us are just a piece of work. I hold onto many known secrets and can only find passion in pen and paper. Not to say pen and ink--I greatly envy those with the ability to draw, to produce, to create. It is cold down here in Louisiana and I think it fair to say that the grey clouds calmly reflect how I feel. There is no discerning through the thick fog; but beneath its shroud lies the intense burning of a great sun. I have been waiting some years, writing, collecting, dreaming. It is with some great disgust that I look upon my work and my reflections engrave on me deep despair when thinking on my past acts. Soon, a great barrier will be broken and tyrants of thought knocked down. I will see to it that effigies of misunderstanding, reflections of incompetence, and mirrors of stereotypes are cracked and smashed under my forceful push against the world. And when it pushes back I will carry that weight of hundreds with great vigor and feats of strength thought long-forgotten. I believe that passion fuels us, that fire courses through us all with burning indignance. When I put pen to paper, I feel that fire coming to life and I write my thoughts down with fiery ink. My notebook is my pyre and my body is a great furnace that burns through the darkness of my life. The sky will eventually be filled with the fireworks of our collective feelings and crackle with the might that is our burning, pulsing tongue. I feel it now, my only pleasure being the keys tapping away and my bony fingers stroking my keyboard. It fills the night with chatter even when I am alone. It carries me to other places as I go about my bloody business. For the murder of thoughts and the strangling of opinions may not be soaked with blood and violence; but the pangs of regret and thoughts of acceptance still burn like any fire does. I will spin my words like some torch thrower and ignite those that watch my performance. For all words are soaked in pitch, to either be doused or lit with feelings and power. That my own voice will thunder and light the fires within others is what drives me. I must come down for now. I have things to do. Much to do. Let me bid you, adieu. Watch for me, wait for me, think about me. It is only with this that I will be able to continue on. Thank you.