To: "The Last Leaf Of The Pad"

With great honor do I grace thee fine red, white, and blue; to whom we owe our black and blue liquid freedom; to whom we trust our deepest darkest truths; to whom proves justice to the popularly unknown; with a final note, of which you so humbly deserve. The endless possibilities that lay waste in the mind, become possible upon your indecent tendency to expose and reveal my thoughts, but none come to mind at a moment in time when inspiration should come with ease, and I am now left with the burden that comes to a writer when he has nothing to offer his God. Sadly, guilt ensues, and the only thing I have in return is this letter of apology. I plea thee, "Take mercy on my soul!" If I were capable of such, I would weep with sorrow upon failing to withdraw all previous notions and assumptions that my mind should ever run thin of words, let alone constructing genius from them. What does this reveal about my ego? That I, a writer, would ever think that I held power over a blank page? Assumption will be my maker who I never wish to meet.

But there was hope for Arthur and there is hope for me now,

"Hic iacet Travisius rex quondam, rexque futurus"

...and so I make my redemption known.

Hear me now "Loose Leaf", thy power over me remains no more than evermore, and so I must conduce these truths as sacred, although benign. Fear no longer tickles the ego that guides my pen; Fear no longer seduces the boundaries between faith in self and self not in faith; Fear no longer drives the capitulating notion that fear itself drives all capitulating notions and binds the retard that is mindful ignorance. These truths are equal in affect, though separate in its black and white form. It has come about that I may, or may not, want, or not want, to play, or not play, with the language that exists, or does not exist, before me. Confusing...no...challenging, yes. Read, reread. Read, now read again. Understand that understanding will not come without challenge, and will not be satisfying no matter its form. I cannot promise promises will be kept; I cannot conclude conclusions that don't exist, but I will will my will from naught, and lay vulnerable to the voids that beckon my thoughts. Mindfulness, here, is power. Power over you, "The Last Leaf Of The Pad."

My apologies friend,

The Author

Class-Mon. October 19th-Between 1pm and 2pm...

What's next? What is there now?

I don't know...

Crafty by means of secrecy, the words, as they form themselves in an order completely unknown to me, remain protected from wandering eyes. They glance, they quickly see that it may not be notes that I am taking, but observing the Other. We, Page, can keep this knowledge between us, and laughter may ensue be it that this agreement should be made in the mutual understanding of its significance to my comical observation. Let that be put to rest for a time being...we can move along now.

I cannot claim to comprehend what it is being spilled by female professor; spilled meaning the literal form, where words and facts and guided views pour forthwith from the mouth with such tremendous quantities that I recede to the safe barriers of my mind.

For some reason, a new occupant, my literal left, claims grounds on territory never treaded by this lifer's feet before. Why these feet feel the need to stray further from comfortable distant territory, that (interestingly enough) is now unoccupied upon the desertion of its occupant? Believe you me, I cannot come to any noteworthy conclusion, but still I find trouble in the thought of the intentions of my literal left. Does literal left not know who sits to their literal right? How dare left assume a position next to right! Without permission, the unassuaged respect of the literal right goes without consideration, and rage may portray paper in a state of utter chaos. Please forgive the author, he means well...

And so, without shame, I will go on wondering, all the while literal left shall remain unaware of my intentions to act 'nothing of the sort', to which grievances will be made.