We write, we love, we hurt, we heal and begin again. We are Bohemians in the truest sense of the words and write only to forget. We are primal deviants who made pure by the certainty of our transgressions, Saints who would be whores but cannot afford the dues. We meet, we read, we laugh, we drink, far too much and cut ourselves to shreds in search a single sentence that moves our hard hearts. Perhaps we spend too many nights alone, perhaps we are simply in need of fellow fools to soften the blows. Imagine coffee with Miller, Nin, Dreiser, a bottle of cab with Alasdair Gray , M.F.K. Fischer and Ezra Pound. Yes, this is a writers collective, but not just a collective of writers.