Whose fault it is—we don’t know now. We are attracted to positive, uplifting spirits and entities the exact same way we are drawn to the conflict and contention. If it relates to reality, if it relates to our reality, we are hooked. If someone can take a world unknown to us and make us feel the same way, whether it be experience or artform or perspective—they’re genius. We all have stories to tell but it’s vary hard for many of us to consolidate in efficient form and articulate them in ways that others quickly grasp and appreciate. If said story, every so often—traumatic, ever surfaces from the turbulent seas that are mind’s memory and body’s spirit to begin with. This place though, this literary experiment, doesn’t exist because of knowing, because of someone having a story, being competent enough to consolidate it and articulate it and entrance and enlighten us to worlds we are unknowing of. On the contrary, everyone here has a story, yet does not know. They do not know whether the story is anything concise, well articulated, motivating anything you could associate with worthwhile literature, and really, does an artist in any artform know? They only had the gumption to put thought into artform and throw their creation to the world. Enter Izzy Essien. When we have all the answers, we’re dead. If living, we must find all the answers, the ratio of answer to question exponential proportion or we’ve stopped looking. More often than not, we must find out—the hard way. Welcome to the literary experiment. As much as possible the story ends.