Hard as enamel... he didn't wait for an invitation; whipped out his gun and used it well.
I could write. I really could. But could I sit down. Could I close everything off? Because when I write, I leave myself open to everything. I want it all to go into what I'm writing.
sometimes supersensitive, but who can get too much
But I need to stop. I need to not inhale to exhale. I cannot cycle-breathe. I don't have that kind of authorial musculature yet.
Something just happened to make me not want to keep writing and instead curl up and be sick as I shout music way too loud way too late at night.