Words flow from me when I am in pain. Some are scribbled down, some laboured over, some make no sense whatsoever. I have a relentless desire to write.
My lonely abstract thinking does not lend itself to cheerful humourous prose and my desire to shock ensures the picture painted is rawer then the accepted raw.
Nonetheless I desire to write, to keep note of it all. My pointless life, this painful existence. Kept in journal after journal since age twelve. What have I left to say?