My model is not my muse. It is just flesh in my dreams. It reflects its pale skin on the foggy glass facets of my stories. It is the ink of my pen, mistakes after mistakes, without the security of double spacing or margins. No net to fall into. It is all I have to color the words and their pace.
The punctuation is illusory, the grammar nonexistent. These are for the rule masters, the ones who need the structure to dream.
I dare you to visit me

13 thoughts on “MODEL HER NOT

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