He began to write when he was 13. He never stopped since then. His muse was his pain, his lovers, his major life choices, his memories, the things who made him the happiest version of himself, the most important things in his life, but above all the people he met. Those, who stayed silent. He chose words to lay in their mouths so they could speak what he imagined, almost craved them to say. He didn't ask, he never thought he had to. But when the day came, he was old and violently sick, he was silenced. Within his own empire of words he couldn't find anything to say. Not a single thing. So he died, silent. While his Daughter laid words upon his grave. Words she wished he had said before he went away. Because in all those Seas of Words and rhymes, there wasn't one single word mentioning her and her mother.