I have this curse or blessing to be engulfed with the desire to spill gasoline on my thoughts and set fire on occasions most inappropriately. I believe that I am not the only person afflicted with such circumstance. Quoting Kafka, where a non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity, I submit that writers lead the most pernicious lives. The reason lies upon the multiplicity of facets that a writer must yield to and succumb from time to time. They (writers) inflate their own consciousness with noxious nitrogen in order to accommodate the profound and superficial, dusk and dawn, the wicked and moral, night and day; the mad and sane.
“The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm.
You don’t see the lightning but you hear the echoes.”