net.

My world is absolute. There's a quantifiable component to love, to madness, to red and to black. In my world the only mystery worth plumbing is the dark heart of a man's soul. And I have been to the empty places on your maps to find the bottom of my own dark heart.

But I've never seen a door. A ghost door that appears. A door that is blank slate and cool gleaming metal. A door with plum-purple writing. I went through this door. Or rather, I opened the door and through it came my typewriter.

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness every where!
And yet this time removed was summer’s time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem’d to me
But hope of orphans and unfather’d fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.

...

What I need is a quart of Bushmills and a girl who can say damn without a blush and in a few hours time it will not matter where I am, who I am or what I am.