I had something really good for this. Deep, thought-provoking, intense. But that was days ago.

My brain fell out on Friday and I haven't been able to find it since. I can't force myself to pick up a pen because I hate my writing again.

I read a play today about a schitzophrenic poet who is afraid to write because it makes her crazy. But when she's on her meds her writing is terrible. I wanted to run up and hug her and just cry.

But that's the problem with relating best to fictional people. You can't ask them questions or make them peppermint tea when it's cold.

I live with the need, but the want is ephemeral.

ink :: graphite