Staring at the ceiling. An ant crawls quickly around the knots in the wood paneling. The knots form faces, characters from which I draw inspiration. I stare into the eyes of the glass skull bottle, pondering death while Alice Cooper tells me about some folks and I worry I’m not a writer. Not an artist. No who I wanted to be all my life. A single crash of thunder rolls by on the second hand as I look to the rain. The faucet of heaven descending on the earth. Who am I?