Looking out onto the serene ocean,

The waves cascading onto the shore like waves of tears,

And at once, I imagine that the ocean isn't made of water that came to be there by natural phenomenons,

But rather that the ocean was formed by all the tears that people have shed since the beginning of time;

And perhaps this is why one feels sad when they gaze into a serene ocean alone,

Because it's not a body of salt water,

But rather a body of tears,

A deposit of sorrow from mankind in generations past;

Perhaps that is why I remember all those I've lost

When I look into the serene ocean.

- Michael Hall

Sometimes,

I lie awake at night,

And wonder where this is all going,

Where all of this will end,

And if I really want to know;

In the end,

I find that the end of all this,

Can either be the best thing ever seen,

Or the worst event of all time.

- Michael Hall

I hold stones in my hands and lucidly wonder where to cast them, knowing that the direction I throw them in could effect every known dimension, and every world within them, and every known period in time for good or for bad.

I'm standing in a darkened room with seemingly no end in any direction, little dots of light, some bigger, some smaller, scattered everywhere; some small spheres floated and spun around an invisible orbit. It wasn't until I had dropped a stone by accident and heard what seemed like thousands of screams echoing inside my mind when that stone crushed one of the small floating spheres, that I realized that I was looking at the universe in miniature size, as if I was monstrously large, even larger than that of stars. And I realized that the stones that I held were Death, and that I was the Reaper, the Harvester of Worlds. With horror the stones slipped from my hand, crushing stars and worlds, even universes, and in the end causing a chain reaction that made the room explode with light, and then go completely dark.

- Michael Hall

Sometimes,

We must fall to our knees,

Before we truly believe;

Sometimes,

We must be broken,

Before we appreciate being whole;

Sometimes,

We must be consumed,

Before we are able to survive,

Sometimes,

Life can only be appreciated,

Until we're so close to death.

- Michael

Write what you want, don't sit there and think "what do other people want to read", rather, think "what do I feel inside that's urging to come out and make itself manifest on the page". Write what you feel, not what you want; and trust me, there IS a difference at times.

- Michael Hall

Total silence, that is the first thing I notice when I awake from a dreamless sleep. The silence itself -- total and encompassing -- felt entirely unnatural; living in New York City, one gets used to the constant noise -- literally -- rather quickly, but this total and encompassing silence was totally contrary to the natural patter of the Big Apple. I slowly sit up, a slow realization that I do not know the place that I'm in. The room is dimly light by a narrow window high up the wall, shadows rule the corners of the room, and everywhere else that dim light seems to fight a losing battle against the shadows.

After taking in the room, I come to a quick realization: there is no door; no way out except for that narrow window, which is probably too small for me to fit through. Despite that, I run towards the window, my only escape from whatever this place is. Oddly enough, it's already been shattered by someone or something. Not caring in the slightest which it was, I crawled through and out the window, trying my best not to cut myself. Eventually I had escaped the dark dungeon, where light was being slain by the ever growing shadows, only to see that something very wrong had happened. It was quite, but not only that it was entirely silent. There were cars in the street everywhere as normal, the sky was growing dark, and the street lights were all working but there wasn't another soul within sight. Something was very wrong, obviously, bu that fact was so obvious in and of itself that it was terrifying; its sheer mass was haunting and eerie. This is New York City, now silent to the up most capacity; welcome to the New New York City: the silent one.

- Michael Hall

Cutting words into shapes,

Sanding them down to caress or to pierce,

Every word must be,

Perfectly chosen.

- Michael Hall

5-20-2015 - Prose Journal

Currently reading The Dark Tower series by Stephen King, on the second book, which is entitled "The Drawing of The Three". Enjoying it very much so far, looking forward to the later books of the series.

I'm working on a adventure/fantasy story that will be mixed with certain scifi elements (such as alternate dimensions and other things to do with time) and horror elements. But before I begin writing it, I want to plan out some things, even some histories of several different "worlds". It's a real headache producing process, but I like the way it's coming along.

Not really sure if I'll do more "Prose Journal" entries or not, it was just an idea that occurred to me recently, but we'll see with time.

- Michael Hall