They come from miles around, these stories do, traveling the great distance from the fringes of my minds eye, some even making the long and arduous haul from my childhood, just to sit and talk. They do this whenever I'm alone. Some are fresh meat, the rest lifers, each easily spotted by the differences in their appearance and the strength of their voices. Fresh meats are gossamers-newly formed stories, little more than a stack of ideas-who shout in whispers. Lifers, on the other hand, are as fleshed out as clear as memories, perhaps even more so, who have acquired the proper pitch and turn of phrase to catch me unawares during the times when my mind idles. As they gather 'round, I cast an eye upon their many and various faces and can't help but feel the slightest twinge of remorse. Being in my company, locked within the confines of my imagination, is not wholly unlike a purgatory for them. A holding pattern, a waiting room, where they converse amongst themselves in voices audible only to myself, trying to catch my attention in the slimmest hope of being set free. Birthed into the world. So here they are, presented to you, to mix and mingle with the ideas loitering in your furtive mind. Treat them nicely, they're all well-behaved and potty trained.