I gather dust on this shelf in the corner of a disheveled closet. Dust, it seems, is my destiny in this life. I was once a vibrant thought, then a carefully orchestrated string of thoughts and words. Life was passed to me. And my goal in this world was to be read and read and read. No reading lights flow over my pages. Not even dust as my pages are closed to the world. I've never been given a chance to spark images and fuel the imagination. Never given a chance. Not a single chance. I must be content with the darkness, the lonliness, and the repetition of the only life I know, the unread words of my soul. ----------------------------------------------------------- It's a damn shame for someone to go to all the trouble of writing a book worthy of submittal and not take a chance. This is for all of you who have written something and let it die.