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
impregnable.


There is so much work to be done.

Posted in Blog Posts

35 Responses to The Morning After

  1. erzebet says:

    OMG I love that icon. I’m working on a piece of art dedicated to you, if you don’t mind. It’s about that spindle. 🙂

  2. So, how was the concert?

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