I’m feeling oddly iffy and disconnected.
Can’t write, it feels like I’ve had all the creativity sucked out of my soul in a particularly botched and bloody op.
Instead of writing I’m settling down to a reread of Poppy Z Brite’s Drawing Blood. It’s a bit like curling up with an old friend you haven’t seen in years and tears. You still love them, but the wrinkles are deeper, and you feel like maybe it’ll be impossible to reconnect. And then a few drinks later it’s just like old times and you’re laughing at stupid jokes and “remember when…?”
I have laundry to do.