Favorite word? Christ, what a trap of a question. Most people will say something like “serendipity” or “ephemeral” or some limp, Hallmark-card nonsense that makes them sound cultured at cocktail parties. Not me. I’ve spent too many nights in smoke-filled motels with the wallpaper peeling like sunburn, and too many mornings chasing the tail end of reality with a camera in one hand and a half-dead liver in the other. No, the word that sticks, the one that matters, is madness.

Madness is the gasoline that keeps the engine howling on this long stretch of American blacktop. It’s the wild grin in the face of a thunderstorm, the sudden urge to tear off down some dirt road just because the map calls it “impassable.” Madness is the glue that binds you when the whole circus starts to unravel, when the deadlines, the politicians, the late fees, and the great grinding machine of daily life threaten to flatten you into a pancake.

It’s not a polite word. Not the kind you tattoo on your wrist with flowers wrapped around it. Madness is jagged, blood-stained, teeth-gnashing. But it’s honest. And honesty is a rare drug in this world. Without madness, you’re just a well-dressed corpse sitting quietly at your desk, waiting for the grave. With it? You’re alive, screaming against the void, and maybe just maybe taking a few photographs of the sunrise before it all burns down again.

So what’s my favorite word? Madness. Not because I worship chaos, but because I understand it’s the only lens sharp enough to cut through the bullshit and capture the raw, beating heart of this deranged carnival we call existence.