Give me a bed in nature on which to lie and rest so that I may bleed from my thoughts the press and turmoil of man. Give me a copse, blanketed by moon smoke and lit by fireflies where the black thoughts can disperse and blend, now invisible, with the night.
Prose
Sore
The day left him utterly drained. Before sunset, he was already feeling the dizzy nausea that comes from over extension. Sleep came quickly and smothered him utterly. Eight hours without turning. When the new day broke, his back hurt like a bitch and he felt all thirty-three of his years.
Fellow Writer 