A miner and a writer are no different in many respects, journeying into the deep dark depths of the earth, the other of his soul. Both searching to bring something back from darkness to light.

As a painter to stains the blank canvas with paint, the writer that stains the blank page with ink. Every now and then a different sort of person is born, the kind who manages to stain reality with his dreams, and in doing so, make it his creation.

A writer does not cry, not that his pain is any less or any different, merely the manner of expression. Where another’s pain is witnessed  through the running of tears across a face, his tears are different, they are ink, nor do they run across faces, but rather upon pages.