The toy begins to sing and play when I kick it by accident, rummaging through my bag for a pen. The little child lends me her room for another night; I dream too much and get no rest. He sends me a manuscript; I devour it whole the minute the others have gone to sleep, it leaves me trembling. Crooked innards and charcoal eyes follow me to sleep.
Madness never terrified so much as it felt like home.
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Sifting through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way.
About Me
- Cajsa
- "If I can go to New York, live madly, and write. I will want for Nothing."
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