DOCUMENT 1

Whenever a writer writes, he remembers the ultimate limit of his craft-that life is finite and so his ink.

Soon, the candle that is the emblem of his passion comes to a slow fade and is snuffed away. And when he looks back at what he had done, it is nothing but wax. Some ball of wax that is the perfect definition of his life-that a candle once lived, challenged sempiternity, and burned itself.

He was once the light bringer and warmth giver and all that he had wrought in his dream. Inscribed on a paper with a pen in his hands will be nothing more than a small fraction of yesterday's spiral oblivion and maybe, just maybe, a tiny portion of readers' life.

So even as he writes, he realizes how he wastes his life on ink. And as he recalls all his times and moments he could have spent baskhng a leisure a perfect sunset or gazing at a rock that people marvelously and romantically call the crown of every midnight, he recognizes how much life and ink he had spent on his dreams.

But then again to those who have never seen, heard, tasted or felt his words; he gave them a soft sense of reality. A reality that will soon be forgotten, or perhaps as anotger reality encased in a book and kept in the shelves of a cold library.

Know this, dear reader, friend; as soon as you read the first few words of every prose or poetry, understand that someone has spent a fragment of his life, that he may convey to you a thought. It may be an idea, or a message; or perhaps he wishes to merely share with you his lonely life, and make you understand that we are all candles and one day we will breathe our last.

So while your flame is burning, share the warmth and light of it. Like every man's moment of a written dream.