But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more. That's when the stories show up in me. They find me all the time. They're made of footsteps...they're made of hunger and desire and trying to live decent. The only trouble is, I don't know which of those stories come first. Maybe they all just merge into one. We'll see, I guess. I'll let you know when I decide.