It only believes
In a pile of dead leaves
And a moon
That’s the color of bone
Writing has been hard. I sometimes stare and count cursor blinks. The inspiration is there, in pan flashes and spotlight dances, then it is gone, and I’m hollow and can’t bring myself to get past fragments – shards of stories or splinters of people.
That is why I am going to try to do Nanowrimo. A huge external force pressing down on my desire to flit away from the process.
It will probably kill me, but I’ll die writing.