Sometimes It Can Feel Like The Whole

I Swim With All My Strength. No Superhuman Surge, Or Pony Heroics; It's Just Me At My Most Desperate.

When I'm Drafting, I Suppose It's An Intuitive Process - Figuring Out When Something Just Has A Surreal Glaze On It And When It Grapples With Something That Could Threaten A Character's Day-to-day Reality.

My Fingers Curl Through The Holes In The Wicker, Through The Wet Grass Beneath It, Trying To Hold Tight To The Sharp Blades Of The Present. Somewhere In My Brain A Sinkhole Is Bubbling Over, And Each Bubble Contains A Scene From A Tiny Sunken World ... I Have Never Been The Prophet Of My Own Past Before. It Makes Me Wonder How The Healthy Dreamers Can Bear To Sleep At All, If Sleep Means That You Have To Peer Into That Sinkhole By Yourself. ... I Had Almost Forgotten This Occipital Sorrow, The Way You Are So Alone With The Things You See In Dreams.

Hopes Were Wallflowers. Hopes Hugged The Perimeter Of A Dance Floor In Your Brain, Tugging At Their Party Lace, All Perfume And Hems And Doomed Expectation. They Fanned Their Dance Cards, These Guests That Pressed Against The Walls Of Your Heart.

You Don't Want People To Think You're Just Writing Stories For Children About A Pig In A Tutu.