I AM NOT A WRITER

I am not a writer, I am an exorcist.

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.