The world around me has become a single unit, with one shape, one form. Objects and subjects have become one, united. I have to separate them, push them apart, analyze them piece by piece. My empty cup of tea is a part of my room and my room is a part of my mind and my mind is a part of me. Everything has integrated and become one. As a writer, I must break these integrations, these intrusions; I must look at each piece on its own terms. A true writer never runs out of subjects or objects. A true writer always finds new things, new passions. A true writer takes the ordinary, the old, the mundane, and makes it beautiful, makes it new, makes it speak. A true writer writes.