Confessions themselves cannot be penalized, and kind words cannot be thanked. 

If I was asked why I write, I would not tell.

I would write about it.

Writing itself is immune, immortal--

it does not say, it means.

Were Claudius' words snatched out of thin air and shackled by the Royal Court?

Were Aucassin's caressed and kissed by the loving Nicolette?

Of course not--they were remembered.

Ideas never die.

They only grow with the ever-expanding heart of the universe;

and to write them down, to express them...is to leave a mark on eternity.