It’s easy for you to say, but I can’t let you read anything I write.
I’ve got the grudge, the itch.
A swarm of mayflies, for one day only; angelically circling your heart, taking in your breath and getting tangled in your hair. I’m like a bird. I’m going to shed my skin; spread my wings and fly, high above you
I’ve got to scratch this out. Free myself. Think of topics and write about them, just write.