I work on a laptop specifically so I can work in cafes and pretend I'm part of the human world.

My inner chemistry had been hijacked by a mad scientist, who poured the fizzy, volatile contents of my heart from a test tube marked SOBER REALITY into another labeled SUNNY DELUSION, and back again, faster and faster, until the floor of my life was slick with spillage.

I never take any notes or draw charts or make elaborate diagrams, but I hold an image of the shape of a book in my head and work from that mental hologram.

I don't paint anymore. I haven't since I abandoned it at 19, in order to begin writing seriously.

I can't bear the silent ringing in my skull.

My heart, to put it more simply, got nostalgic for the present. Always a bad sign.

Writing is a necessity and often a pleasure, but at the same time, it can be a great burden and a terrible struggle.