Writers harvest stories like their lives depend on it.
Good stories, bad stories.
Happy stories, painful stories.
Stories once told before, a long, long time ago.
Stories unheard of.
They attract and are attracted to people who are living books.
Whose pages are delicate, unread by foreign eyes.
They call them their muse.
They hold on to these pages to the very last word.
Sometimes writers need complexity in forming their own stories.
Sometimes they look for that complexity in other pages, other souls, other books.
Writers can never stop harvesting stories.
Without stories, they cease to exist.
