I AM NOT A WRITER
In June night falls late but the voices crowd where the shadows cast. An American in London selling smut. A lady’s maid who works at night and bears a secret. A man who waits while hoping to find something he doesn’t have a name for.
Those voices are the closest, the ghosts who creep in the closest shadows. Behind them a legion awaits. A man who attempts to preserve an abandoned New York. A psychiatrist confronted by the evidence of a god machine. A woman resurrected a hundred thousand years after her presumed death. A woman who can not die. And many more.
The voices stretch into the short nights. Writers create characters, they craft stories. I exorcize them from my brain, like a sculptor who discovers a statue within the marble. I simply document what already exists.
And drink, I do that too. That might not help with the voices.
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