Dreams are wars.
The bastards are worry soaked and plagiarized.
Last night, I wrote a book about the Great War.
I must be talented; I scribbled it out in four hours…
under the influence of wretched allergies and antihistamines.
It was full of maps, but not one crumb of a plot.
I looked across the huge oak desk at the publisher and begged for another chance.
My passion isn’t merely the ripped out pages of a forgotten encyclopedia.
I am more than just the stapled together narratives of the past.
I have words for the soldier’s mouths.
I have friction for the truth and lies.
“Please, master of my dreams, give me one more chance at life.”
He raised his finger like a gavel and spoke without haste and full of judgement.
His face haunted me like a purple coated business goon in the scariest of graphic novels.
He did not have kind words.
With that…I woke up and wrote.
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