I was in trouble, my life was a moderate-going-on-severe mess, and not being able to write was only part of it. I wasn’t raping kids or running around Times Square preaching conspiracy theories through a bullhorn, but I was in trouble just the same. I had lost my place in things and couldn’t find it again. No surprise there; after all, life’s not a book. What I was engaging in on that hot July evening was self-induced shock therapy, and give me at least this much credit—I knew it.
@Bag of Bones ▫𓂃
(echo:: @ ⌗)