i tend to think that if i am only the writer, there is someone out there who is only the reader. they've read photographs and tasted sentences, whole landscapes made of stories, pieces of brilliance, prose. their nights punctuated by dreams, quotes worn on their sleeve, they have waited. they end world after world, tucked a bookmark beneath their tongue, finding the thought: Is there anyone who can, write me a truth? Just one sentence to believe in.