The creative spirit rises thick like a familiar aroma as the writer walks about his environment. Foreign or not, his mind constantly works.

The shadow in front of me reflects a square jawed, spikey-haired, broad shouldered, 8ft tall behemoth. Suddenly my minds eye fills with images of a fight between my shadow and the shadow of a would-be assassin. I prevail, the blood of the assassin flows into my shadow; I leave a footprint in the wake of my destruction. And continue on.

I didn’t kill anyone, but my mind works feverishly to keep up with the images my surroundings create. Stories about bystanders, fanciful alternate situations to everyday outcomes. I blink, and get lost in my thoughts as I see the Target I frequent attacked by hungry zombies, flooding through the aisles like locusts; I search for the nearest section of blunt objects and high ground…only to be knocked out of my daydream by an employee asking me to please stop climbing the furniture. Imagination, its our life’s blood. Enjoy it.