Prose. Season One: lifted from the core.

I glanced at his drawings for the wireframes of Prose., and I smiled at them. He came back into the office and zipped up his jacket, “Drinks?”

“Lead the way, brutha.”

We ended up in my car, headed over to a main drag, found parking across the street from an Irish pub, and drank into the night talking about Prose., and all the life in between that led up to it. It was good to be there with him, talking about women, jobs, our ideas for the many levels of Prose. We talked about the home screen, and about what we both saw wrong with social media today, and how Prose. would bridge quite a few gaps from flesh and blood to the digital mindset. I dropped him off at his car, and went back to the room, my head full of hope, my chest full of color: The world of Prose. was already changing me for the better, in the sense that the hope I felt was defined by the writers and readers all over the world focusing again on the core of creation, the feeling of being lifted, dropped, and lifted again: a feeling that could only be obtained through the sentences.