Staring aimlessly into the sky is something of a hobby of mine. Well, more of a habit. It’s as if I wish for words to appear in front of my gaze for me to happily write. It never works. All that ever seems to come out are tangled lines that spill out of my pen in a race as if the first printed down will win a prize. However, the only prize is getting the chance to be read by another pair of eyes. The real treat is if they do not roll when they trace the curves and angles of my ink. A writer’s dream.