I have been asleep so long, I can't remember what being awake is really like.
Is all of this real, or am I still dreaming?
Have all the hard lessons and winter-aching scars of the last two years just been the symptoms of a personal dillusion?
Are the pomes in my head the voices of the angry ghosts I've left behind, following after, tugging at my shadow?
I pulled the doors shut behind me to keep out waves of hellfire, and when I peeked cautiously out, all that remained were burnt-bridge ashes and footprints where dreams had fled from me. Too long, hunkered down and waiting.
Writers don't wait.
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