The Morning After

The night after a jaw-shattering, soul-tearing concert, when she felt
as though she might never write anything worth that strange woman’s
single scream, the writer sits at a makeshift desk while October rains
dampen leaves both red and gold outside her window, wrapped in a blue
Chinese robe, her face scrubbed clean of the last night’s clotted black
make-up, her hair brushed out and gleaming. Her painted hands float
over grey keys, and the clock goes whispering by. The room seems

There is so much work to be done.

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