The secret to writing is a style, a lyric. A cadence that weaves in and out of your head, that traps your words like silken nets and spins a tale without you even noticing. Something that reaches deep inside of you with effortless ease and touches parts that you never knew you had, that awakens parts that had long been dead. Words and thoughts that drift to this subconscious rhythm. It pulls, but gently, insistent nonetheless until every moment and waking thought though of conscious machination is subtly influenced by the cadence that you read, the tale that is told, the story that unravels. When done right it flows from top to bottom, seeking escape from fingertips that tingle in action, in anticipation. Brain weary from the telling yet sliding, gliding, smoothly tilting downhill at high pace as more words escape, pen to paper, ink with which to jot. It flows.