You return to your manuscript in the mornings, the start of each day bathed in a gift. It's all you ever want to do, you find your thoughts wander to magic at any break in the grind. This is how you were meant to feel.
There is still hope between your lines, still a morsel of what you thought you might be nestled in your spinal column. The street outside is warm, sunny, spring bathes the city in a sort of peace, you live your life in novelty.
It's an illness,
sure.
But you're no longer so sure you're looking
for a cure.
No comments:
Post a Comment