Sometimes I Write What I Can't Paint,

I Paint Very Messy. I Throw Paint Around. So When I Let Myself Do The Same Sort Of Thing With My Writing, And I Would Just Write And Write And Write And Revise, That's When I Found My Rhythm In Writing.

And Before He Can Tell Her To Tell Widget Goodbye For Him If Need Be, She Leans Forward And Kisses Him, Not On The Cheek, As She Has A Handful Of Times Before, But On The Lips, And Bailey Knows In That Moment That He Will Follow Her Anywhere.

They Are Enthusiasts, Devotees. Addicts. Something About The Circus Stirs Their Souls, And They Ache For It When It Is Absent. They Seek Each Other Out, These People Of Such Specific Like Mind. They Tell Of How They Found The Circus, How Those First Few Steps Were Like Magic. Like Stepping Into A Fairy Tale Under A Curtain Of Stars… When They Depart, They Shake Hands And Embrace Like Old Friends, Even If They Have Only Just Met, And As They Go Their Separate Ways They Feel Less Alone Than They Had Before.

It Is Perhaps Both A Blessing And A Curse That Fictional Worlds Spring Into My Mind Nearly Fully Formed And It Takes Quite A While To Sift Through Everything To Find The Story.

I Do Not Like Sitting Idly By When Something Clearly Isn't Right. I Feel... Not Trapped But Something Like It, And I Don't Know What To About.