It was a peculiar night, the kind of night where stories come to life. Houses of ill repute and blinking streetlamps dimly illuminated the town. Leaving behind footprints on the snowy mud, a cloaked man walks... A tavern stood, barely visible in the blizzard. The man walked in and slips in two pence to a least drunk man and asks. "Point me to the direction of one William Shakespeare." The man lazily pocketed the coin and pointed to a jovial man chatting animatedly to a bored and half-asleep barkeep. Taking a stool near him, the man ordered a whiskey. In his merry mood, William studied the man. "Haven't seen you here before?" William asks. "Haven't been here before." "Ha, a witty traveler, just what I needed." William turned his chair to the man and extended his hand, chuckling drunkenly. "The name's William Shakespeare." The stranger made no move to shake Williams's hand. The rude yet witty stranger was g
I write for a multitude of reasons. sometimes to escape, sometimes to create and play god. But if the question is why do I write, then I am sorry to say that I have no reason. Or to be exact, I don't know any reason. Sometimes I get pleasure out of it, sometimes it numbs my pain, sometimes the opposite. sometimes nothing at all. I guess this is how I process life. please read through my heart and mind, and leave a comment to let me know how you felt these words.