Goddamit stressed. Mulling over how to churn out 3000 words for Autofic. Staring at a half-scribbled page of snippets from memory: another document partially written on the desk, just barely begun. So many good lines, so few connectives. So many ideas, so little time. So much talent, such pathetic showcase. Uninspired, and so hopelessly disillusioned.

Plath. I want to do Plath.

Darling, all night
I have been flickering: off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

Restless, and clammy in bed. Need a shower, but its too late. Cold. Where a warm body when you need one? Write in circles. Lonely murmurs in the dark. Candles flicker sadly. Echos all round: staircase, kitchen, porch. Nuances. Portent. Deluge. Are you alive or not? Is there nothing in your head? Warm yourself in my memory.

And they will throw them into the furnace of fire,
where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

***

They come together: one the inky blackness of night,
the other the incandescent light of day. They touch
but for the briefest of moments and the one is no more.
For the birth of light is the death of dark. And presence
alone is the end of void.

"Even the Dead are Warm in Tuscon" - Fatladysing

[If only we could all write prose like that.]