I want to write things but I have so much jumbling thoughts rolling around, piling on top of one another, getting lost among the disorganized mess of glitter, shadows, warm lights, furry pelts, magic, darkness, cold marble slabs, moonlight, twinkling stars, drops of blood, fluttering wings, feathers, crackling fire, sunbeams catching floating pollen on a summer day in a place that exists only in my imagination. Gardens which hold secrets which no one will ever know, that lure you in with their sweet aromatic odor, and suck all logic out of your mind until you are left limp and content basking in magic, golden light. Surrounded by sweet flowers and balmy breezes.
“I never thought of it as God. I didn’t know what to call it. I don’t believe in devils, but demons I do because everyone at one time or another has some kind of a demon, even if you call it by another name, that drives them.”—Gene Wilder