Sometimes I wonder if writers ever get taken by the madness. The magic that they find, all trapped up within the world. In people, places, and things. In scents, smiles, and sin. In ideas, hope, fear, love, and anger. In the magic. Because that’s what it is. People laugh and say there’s no such thing. But I see it every day. I feel it. Sometimes, I can taste it and hear its whispers. Begging to be bled onto the page.
Then again, maybe I’m just taken by the madness.