Writing is as much about pain, or in how we deal with it, as it is about flights of fantasy. We get lost inside our heads, with no compass, certainly not one of the moral kind.

Through a labyrinth filled with the noxious fumes of unrepentant imagination, we come face to face with demons that are all are own. They spew ash and tar, forming arcane sigils on bare walls. And in the silence thereafter, between the sighs and cravings for hard liquor, within the space of a single second, the tolling of bare knuckles on rosewood… fingers fall on lettered keys, making music of the most infernal kind.

Get a grip, son. This isn’t a playground. It’s an abattoir.

Blood is our business. Each word is a trail to our next victim. We kill with a keystroke, on a whim of discontent.

Writing is pain, because living is pain.

We make our houses inside the shattered remnants of our collective consciousness. Cultural sirens blaze, a banshee’s wail, mournful and unconnected, but sewn into the fabric of a new reality.

Shadows and the soft clickety-clack of nightmares made real by the pain of second birth.

You want to write large, best get to bleeding.

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