Things are being rushed right now, but I want quality over speed. Stories not ready for mass consumption, they need to cook and burn before they’re tasty and delicious. Every reading makes them duller it seems, but it is the only way.
I pray each time it gets better but it feels worse.
The words seem foreign to me, at times they sound nothing like myself and yet, it’s all me.
I need to rework everything, maybe again. Or just nothing. And print it out.
Time will tell me when it’s ready.
The thunder roars overhead, it’s 5:30am here, as a storm passes through, the lightning flashes every few seconds. perfectly alone with my thoughts and listening to “Sanctuary” by the Cult, as my ears dance to the thoughts of my imagination.
Just keep writing.
A new vanity piece, I’m afraid.