Dear Oliver et al:
You have traveled ages, from the depth of the subconscious, through the murky spots of memories, and arrived at the bottom of the surface—in my dreams. For this, I am deeply indebted to you. Many others of my kind have been patronized in similar manners—those who live on the surface call my kind “writers” and your kind “characters,” but in the submerged world of creation, we are one. Yet many followed a different path. They chained you to their journeys. They carved words on your tongues. They thought themselves gods and strung you up like puppets. I am not one of them. For I have come to realize that without me, you are but lost soul floating in the swamp of untouchable fears; without you, however, my words are but empty carcasses. Bereft of color. Flaccid and still. So when I don the masks of your multitude, turn my sleep into perdition. Show me the darker side of dark. Transform my visions into wine for the damned. Make my pen your flesh and blood. And make my paper your crucifix. But for all this, I ask for one thing, and that is forgiveness. For I am a novice, and the passion of my dreams are only matched by the inelegance of my pen. Still I shall strive to venture where the tempest takes me. Where you take me. And if I shall perish on that journey, so be it. Now go mad. Disembowel hell. You are free. Your ever-wandering friend, Tony Li
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Tony LiFull-time dreamer. Part-time high school student at Woodside Priory School. Archives
April 2017
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