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Description
i. I am i, the imaginary. I am the dreamer who sleeps without memory, who braves the expanse of time and space and impossibility while waking, who sails the dark seas of mystery, who trips the light fantastic between words and rhythms. I am the madman who yearns for a bright future despite the plague of reality surrounding, not succumbing to the clawing arms that threaten to rend hope from life and limb, but clamber over them, dodging their eternal grasp. I am the dot on the i, the point of the period, the eye of the storm, the precipice of faith overlooking doubt, the finality of certainty. I am the mask that hides still, quiet power, the alias, the secret identity, the metaphor, the reflection and refraction, the symbol of quandary overcome, of courage over despair, the steady progress in the background, the orchestra practicing far below the din. I am the weaver of worlds, the slayer of giants, the bane of evil, the haunting face that monsters fear, the avatar of dichotomy, the light in the shadows and the shadow in the light.

ii. I am the curve of the question, the duplicity of honesty, the tome of lies, the warped mirror, the mouse, the whispering phantom, the face in the background, the blinders and the carrot. I am the whip that marks my victims, my creations, that tortures their bodies and souls, that pushes them onward through trials and tribulations, through life and death and all that lays beyond. I am the monster, the tyrant, the bringer of life and the thief of hearts and hopes. I am the raven pecking out the eyes of corpses. I am the endless hallway, the greener grass on the other side, Eldorado over the next hill, the ever increasing desperate green monster. I am the darkness that good people dread to mention, the sliver in the corner of their eye, the encroaching tide, the erosion of morality, the destroyer of worlds with the stroke of a key, with the firing of a synapse of inspiration, armed with Checkov's gun which sits above my desk, along with the sword of Damocles, swinging high above the telltale heart within my chest.

iii. I am the fear and the chaos, the coward quaking in the dark, too afraid to light the candle for fear of seeing what terrors lurk about, forgetting they are kin and ken, family, friend, employer, stranger, but curious and curiouser, the reflection on the shards of shattered glass. I am Micah, "who is like God?" Certainly not I, this frail vessel, this chained savage, this brute mocking sophistication and civilization, this hapless buffoon, this prattling fool. I am Raymond the adviser and protector, but what false safety must be given, when the wailing screams come not from eldritch fiends from the depths but from the hollow reaches of their knight, their stalwart champion? But still, I am the flame that rages, the passion that blazes, the justice that engulfs evil and drives good on through the night.

iv. I am the ocean, concealing hidden depths and all manner of primordial terror. I am the mountain peak, breath-taking from the beauty and tragedy of nature. I am the mystic valley, protector of the fae and the hob, the necromonger and the neuromancer. I am the barren streets and the arid wasteland. I am the pit and the cavern, the capped volcano and the chasm. I am the stars in the night, the sun in the day, the moon reflecting and orbiting. I am time and space and gravity. I am Hades and Olympus, Camelot and Avalon, Talamh and Tír na nóg, the meditating mediator and the wasteful wraith. I am the ouroboros and the phoenix and the basilisk. I am the sphinx and the dragon and the djin. I am Anansi and Coyote, and Loki and Puck. I am myth and legend, change and contradiction. I am the spear and the sword, the shield and the armor. I am the abyss that stares at itself.

v. I am a coin, two sides? Nay, three. The light, the dark, and all that lay between. Not white, not black, not just. The Gray. I am worth nothing and yet considered priceless. I am who I am and more than what you see. I am the courage of youth tempered with the wisdom of experience, the vorpal blade that goes snicker-snack as it slices through Jaberwocky and hellfiend, the sage that heals the wounds, the bard that heals the heart, the magic of creation and destruction, the luck and chance, the fortune and malady, the hand that guides, conceals, hides, cons and gestures onward all the same. I am the eyes that see the music, the fingers on the strings, the heart of the rhythm, the feet upon the dance floor, the singer on the stage, the hand that guides the spotlight to lovers enjoined in movement. I am magic. I am science. I am art. I am craft. I am a writer, an author, the hands, the keys, the pen, the paper, the hours and days, the months and years, the blood and ink, the tea-time and tension, the driven addict, immersed by stories begging for release, the power, the plot, the characters, the worlds, the words.

vi. I am i. The imaginative iceberg, concealing hidden depths. The inkling of idealism in an dystopian present. The igneous Icarus, wings forged with metal instead of wax, dreaming of flight, yet more cautious like Daedalus. The ignoble insect, capable of great harm, but wielding it on the inanimate to bring them to life. The ignored intelligence, the database of fiction and fact sadly ill employed for such purposes. The illogical illumination, the hopeful candle in the dark sea of ignorance and doubt. The implied industriousness of the imploded inkblot, stories brewing up and fermenting to their proper age. The immersed impulse and indulgent inanity, making jest and mockery whenever able, yet choosing careful tact. The iconic invader with impish images, the avatar of mirth and madness, the grinning fool, the mix of freaks, the other white meat waiting on the flip-side. The insane inertia driving onward, living off insulin and inkwell, as much in debt to each for sustenance and continued vitality. I am I. Micah Raymond Maloney. M.R.Grinmore. Just me, myself, and I.

Description
i. I am i, the imaginary. I am the dreamer who sleeps without memory, who braves the expanse of time and space and impossibility while waking, who sails the dark seas of mystery, who trips the light fantastic between words and rhythms. I am the madman who yearns for a bright future despite the plague of reality surrounding, not succumbing to the clawing arms that threaten to rend hope from life and limb, but clamber over them, dodging their eternal grasp. I am the dot on the i, the point of the period, the eye of the storm, the precipice of faith overlooking doubt, the finality of certainty. I am the mask that hides still, quiet power, the alias, the secret identity, the metaphor, the reflection and refraction, the symbol of quandary overcome, of courage over despair, the steady progress in the background, the orchestra practicing far below the din. I am the weaver of worlds, the slayer of giants, the bane of evil, the haunting face that monsters fear, the avatar of dichotomy, the light in the shadows and the shadow in the light.

ii. I am the curve of the question, the duplicity of honesty, the tome of lies, the warped mirror, the mouse, the whispering phantom, the face in the background, the blinders and the carrot. I am the whip that marks my victims, my creations, that tortures their bodies and souls, that pushes them onward through trials and tribulations, through life and death and all that lays beyond. I am the monster, the tyrant, the bringer of life and the thief of hearts and hopes. I am the raven pecking out the eyes of corpses. I am the endless hallway, the greener grass on the other side, Eldorado over the next hill, the ever increasing desperate green monster. I am the darkness that good people dread to mention, the sliver in the corner of their eye, the encroaching tide, the erosion of morality, the destroyer of worlds with the stroke of a key, with the firing of a synapse of inspiration, armed with Checkov's gun which sits above my desk, along with the sword of Damocles, swinging high above the telltale heart within my chest.

iii. I am the fear and the chaos, the coward quaking in the dark, too afraid to light the candle for fear of seeing what terrors lurk about, forgetting they are kin and ken, family, friend, employer, stranger, but curious and curiouser, the reflection on the shards of shattered glass. I am Micah, "who is like God?" Certainly not I, this frail vessel, this chained savage, this brute mocking sophistication and civilization, this hapless buffoon, this prattling fool. I am Raymond the adviser and protector, but what false safety must be given, when the wailing screams come not from eldritch fiends from the depths but from the hollow reaches of their knight, their stalwart champion? But still, I am the flame that rages, the passion that blazes, the justice that engulfs evil and drives good on through the night.

iv. I am the ocean, concealing hidden depths and all manner of primordial terror. I am the mountain peak, breath-taking from the beauty and tragedy of nature. I am the mystic valley, protector of the fae and the hob, the necromonger and the neuromancer. I am the barren streets and the arid wasteland. I am the pit and the cavern, the capped volcano and the chasm. I am the stars in the night, the sun in the day, the moon reflecting and orbiting. I am time and space and gravity. I am Hades and Olympus, Camelot and Avalon, Talamh and Tír na nóg, the meditating mediator and the wasteful wraith. I am the ouroboros and the phoenix and the basilisk. I am the sphinx and the dragon and the djin. I am Anansi and Coyote, and Loki and Puck. I am myth and legend, change and contradiction. I am the spear and the sword, the shield and the armor. I am the abyss that stares at itself.

v. I am a coin, two sides? Nay, three. The light, the dark, and all that lay between. Not white, not black, not just. The Gray. I am worth nothing and yet considered priceless. I am who I am and more than what you see. I am the courage of youth tempered with the wisdom of experience, the vorpal blade that goes snicker-snack as it slices through Jaberwocky and hellfiend, the sage that heals the wounds, the bard that heals the heart, the magic of creation and destruction, the luck and chance, the fortune and malady, the hand that guides, conceals, hides, cons and gestures onward all the same. I am the eyes that see the music, the fingers on the strings, the heart of the rhythm, the feet upon the dance floor, the singer on the stage, the hand that guides the spotlight to lovers enjoined in movement. I am magic. I am science. I am art. I am craft. I am a writer, an author, the hands, the keys, the pen, the paper, the hours and days, the months and years, the blood and ink, the tea-time and tension, the driven addict, immersed by stories begging for release, the power, the plot, the characters, the worlds, the words.

vi. I am i. The imaginative iceberg, concealing hidden depths. The inkling of idealism in an dystopian present. The igneous Icarus, wings forged with metal instead of wax, dreaming of flight, yet more cautious like Daedalus. The ignoble insect, capable of great harm, but wielding it on the inanimate to bring them to life. The ignored intelligence, the database of fiction and fact sadly ill employed for such purposes. The illogical illumination, the hopeful candle in the dark sea of ignorance and doubt. The implied industriousness of the imploded inkblot, stories brewing up and fermenting to their proper age. The immersed impulse and indulgent inanity, making jest and mockery whenever able, yet choosing careful tact. The iconic invader with impish images, the avatar of mirth and madness, the grinning fool, the mix of freaks, the other white meat waiting on the flip-side. The insane inertia driving onward, living off insulin and inkwell, as much in debt to each for sustenance and continued vitality. I am I. Micah Raymond Maloney. M.R.Grinmore. Just me, myself, and I.