Its hot tonight, the cool shell of this cottage has dissolved under the sun. The walls are not crisp with cold but are bending inwards, warping my sleep. I write so that words washed up in me can tumble out like the tide, little soldiers of ink giving uniform to my mind.
I wish that that at night when I lay and the other world appears, that my dreams would canter down my spine, thunder out of my heart and fall onto the page.
I wish yours would too,
So we may see what we see,
Tumultuous images of darkness and grace.
Would it be so different after all?