My sisters always tell me that I write in my books too much. My sisters are fools. Without my books we would have nothing; you would not know about your past, you could not understand your present. And so, I write. True I can not keep a full record of everything that happens in the world, but I can keep a record of the some of the things I see.
This writing is one such attempt. I saw this story, crying to be told, so I let it have its own words, its own life. Whoever I decide to bestow this gift on might find it meaningless, or without a purpose, but I doubt it. I would choose someone who had a power to look at people, the ability to see the grand unfolding the littlest of tales can tell.