In another life, I enjoyed stringing words together. I could build stories from the ashes of my thoughts. That was fun, and it also implies my brain was on fire at some point. But, I guess I had some living to do because eventually my non-writing life got in the way of that writing life and I stopped stringing written words together. In that time, I became a music editor. A bar owner. And a father. The words went from a sweet and steady flow, to a sticky trickle, to an intermittent drip. Now, I miss the familiarity of words getting familiar and I wonder if I am still able to mix a little blood and ash to build a story or two. So here I am.