Preface by An AuthorTo my first child.

  I hope you don't forget the endless heart I've poured into you when it inevitably becomes vitriol. It is an artist's true task to perfect their craft and a first draft is only known and remembered for its mistakes. But no great opus exists without seven thousand failures, and I intend to fail, time and time again, if it means to reach once the ascension I seek.

  For a start, it is one branded by its honesty. And for its honesty, it has to remain concealed. I suppose this will arrange you, since of my many sicknesses, you inherited isotion. You write to nobody. You are aware that every word you say and write is spoken and written to a void. That I am the only reality there is — except for the sptters in empty pages, from which you are born.

  There are no further instructions. You may proceed as you wish — unlike she who shan't be mentioned, your judgement and style is trusted.

  Just don't let the masterpiece embark when it gets to you.

  M. Santana.