Writers write. That's all it is. It is as simple, and as complex, as that.
Like all sweet dreams, it will be brief, but brevity makes sweetness, doesn't it?
I think that we're all mentally ill. Those of us outside the asylums only hide it a little better - and maybe not all that much better after all.
Superstition, like true love, needs time to grow and reflect upon itself.
Silent white light filled the world. And the righteous and unrighteous alike were consumed in that holy fire.
You learned to accept, or you ended up in a small room writing letters home with Crayolas.