Black motes float acoss my vision, dancing upon vitreous pools of tannic illuminations, spinning to a waltz unheard by all save me. Taunting, teasing, coaxing me to swim with the inky eels and snakes.
The contagion of my illness passes easily to those around me. As if the presence of abstract thought and unsuppressed passion permeates the very air we inhale. In time, we exhale words, fully formed, from our imagination.
In the depths of our pandemic, we speak in tongues, and transform indecipherable gibberish of dramatis personæ, conspiracies, fantasies, love, betrayal, mysteries and confessions, into a living, breathing creature.
Thin spiral notebook 
I love the feel of this, Carrie’s remarks are spot on.
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Damn…it works as a story, sure, but I could read it out loud with no idea of definitions and just fall in love with the cadence of your word choices
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On the one hand it’s magical, elegant prose. And on the other it’s too flowery, as if it’s trying too hard to be deep and poetic.
It’s the kind of language I love but could feel my head hurting after reading too much of it 😉 It’s probably why I don’t enjoy literary works as much as fluffy chick lit LOL
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Good piece. Interesting way to look at it.
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Such depth of thought. I love this.
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