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I’m writing up a storm. I’m playing with language and words and characters. Everything makes me want to put words on the page. I’ve got men with knives. Celloists who draw their fingers along strings and break your heart. A fuck in the desert. The pitter-patter of fingers along moist skin. Tattoos and piercings. Crimson corset strings running over pale skin. The sting of salt air mixing with rain and tears. Scattering a herd of deer so that your heart rockets in your chest. Smelling wild garlic along a path, and bending to it, being reminded of a man from long ago.

What are you writing about? Or thinking of writing about? Or wanting — oh, god, the wanting — to write about?

Kiss kiss bang bang, s.


“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.”  ~Ray Bradbury