Monday, July 15, 2013

On writers.

The madness came around again. Like an epidemic, it sank its diseased teeth into the sanity of men, women and children. It held torches under their eyelids and brewed a storm of torment within the paper-lantern walls of their hearts. Every one was shaken by the sediments of things long past. Their marrow grew cold with the child-ghosts of aborted dreams, as their resilience grew gaunt like consumptive little girls. Pale wraiths talked incessant, soft torment in their ears. Ink blots grew bigger, grew longer under their eyes, as shadows reached out from the depths of their pupils. Their hollow chests rattled with a hundred useless dreams, like stones caught in an empty drum. And all they could do, was write.