The happier I am, the less I write. Happiness is dumb, and dead. I prefer feeling the weight of mind, body, and soul crushing meaning in my bones. I will bear the burden, and scratch it out of me so that others don’t have to. I am, after all, not alone with this disease.
Let me roll a black river onto dry beds of organic mash. Scribble and scrawl. Hatch meaning with my sword as I plunge it deep into the folds of your heart.