Every other dawn before the birds take to their singing, I sit at my desk thinking of the myriad ways a story can be told or a life lived to appease a foe’s aggro or appeal to the sentiments of readers and spectators waiting to be intrigued; people asking to be enthralled in a web, a weaving that transforms the acts and flaws of a character into the magic created from a marriage of the mind, the ink, and a blank sheet of paper; the most perfect threesome ever since man opened his eyes to see the breaking of dawn and the falling of dusk, the two constants that determine his days, ways, and the canvas on which he paints his masterpieces.