The spontaneous combustion of my soul makes me leak tears and pathetic sparks of laughter. Sparks of laughter that long to be fused together, forming a flame that might tempt me to stay awake.
And to write.
To write to write to write.
To write is to implode and organize the pieces, to conjure up some logic where there is none.
When it comes to implosion I'm a pyromaniac, when it comes to organization I'm anal retentive, and when it comes to logic I get lost. So it's no wonder that this as-of-late gag on my fingertips is strangling me.
My number one fear is the possibility that I might have nothing to say.
<3