My thoughts flow free from the hives of my mind onto the papers adorned with the glow of the very early morning—weariness, the price I pay to give my words wings. Like a madwoman, I feel split. Either romanticize the truth or freely share it or tell shiny fiction. Laboring like a souped-up engine, I am witness to why I strive so much. What pours forth is nothing short of genius.
“Poor woman,” said the doctor from the observation window. “She’s been entirely too maniacal during her stint at this asylum. Give her a shot and calm her down. Stat.”