Write. Edit out the fiction. For too long I have gilded everything I know.
In attempts to make this life seem better than it is. To live in a world of edit. Forever stopping my pen. Forever checking my lines and prose as if there would be some sort of inspiration that ... inhale.. takes us away... exhale... and through this pause of a muse comes the inevitable death. I can feel the rusted metal of the tracks now crying for attention and about to scream as the train car twists and it is derailed in a complete and utter dead stop.