There was once a writer, well we'd rather call him a dabbler since he himself failed to go by that title,
writer. By any sound judgement I'd say he was rather good, especially at a time where writing, as an art,
was dying out. You'd find him scribbling poetry in his notebooks, or hunched over a screen typing them,
but rarely would you find him writing the very many books that would accompany the various ideas he
had in mind for them! Of his poetry, I found his various pieces very intriguing, very "up-wards-
trajectory" like, each better than the last. What really puzzled me is how he'd avoid signing off his name,
once I heard him exclaim, "One cannot own art, especially great art, and it's a gift, an insight from
powers, forces beyond us."
Soon enough his poetry began carrying a strange tag, a name I had never in actuality heard anyone call
him by, Don Stavo, generally I assumed it to be a non de plume, I would much later find it had a deeper
...