Words wash over her and drown her in silty prose she's coughing and smiling but they're in her teeth and her eyes and she can't breathe she's so overwhelmed with the things she wants to do and say and get out of her system that's swimming with cake and alcohol from days before and candy and water but nothing else good just gallons and gallons and gallons of water washing sloshing splashing between her ears and she's trying to block out the steady hum of disconnect felt intensely between her eyes and what she sees and feels and knows and is but she can't stop the prose.

It's there. Bursting.

Like everything is bursting. Like her brain is humming and her insides are knotting and her fingers are twitching with energy and the Indian Ocean is rising up to leave the land scattered with despair and she still feels helpless and greedy and fat and she reaches for the cake the icing the marshmallows one more time and sloshes it down with water and she writes gallons pours it onto paper until it's dripping running with verbs and nouns and adjectives adjectives adjectives running together and melding with the world around her and she no longer sees colors or shapes or smells or tastes but only descriptions and updates or pages and pages and pages of what of she doesn't even know why or what it means or how the hell she's supposed to use it make it into something useful something people want to read something people care about.

Something. Anything.

She wants her writing to be more than incoherent.

ink :: graphite