From the oversized armchair that I have adopted these past few hours, I peer outside the window and watch as the rain paints this beautiful city with a layer of blurry droplets that fill the air with silent noise. The corner of Bull and Broughton sits right by the front door, such a wonderful landmark, so much to imagine on either side of either direction. My salted caramel mocha–soy milk, no whipped cream–is sitting neglected on the table, for my thoughts at this moment take priority over all ten fingers. A small Speaker’s Handbook with hundreds of pages of knowledge sits unopened on the surface as well, but why must I dedicate time to speaking when writing is immensely more pure? I type, and my voice becomes not only tangible but infinite–a magical phenomenon. These words flow directly from my brain to the hearts of whoever takes interest, whenever, forever… nothing lost or expended in the distance between mouth and ear. Writing is like this rain: I see it, and I understand it, yet I hear nothing; the quietness only adds to its beauty. I think this is where i’ll stay.