Sifting through tatty scrawled notes. Desperately furious hand; pouring forth perpetual cocktails of mind toxins in blotchy ink. Heavy watery explosions; dried time. Tasked to beat the drugs, the sad drab clinics, psychologically challenged specialists. Yeah, they sure were special all right; paid listeners who couldn’t shut up. It’s too easy to turn the tables on the professionally needy; care couldn’t care less. Unfamiliar hand between his own; Did I write that? Did I reply to myself? Goading himself to take the leap; the devil between the lines, teaser. The years trickle on; he somehow survived himself… For how long? © Natasha Sinclair
Clan Witch & Word Refinery 