dead bodies emerging
..from my sick mind, straight onto the page, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I’m feeling nauseous now, which is sorta funny because nothing really happened, everybody is fine and so on, but still it’s as creepy as touching a dead man’s cool brow slightly wet with whatever they use to preserve the bodies; or what, in this case, my mind does to preserve the memories I honestly would prefer to rot somewhere.
I can’t wait to write myself out of this place. I’m not able to write about that particular body, not now, not yet, and I sense that this will make Vega feel like a very psycho and very foul book even though nothing really bad will happen there and it all will have a happy ending.
Except that it won’t.
1300+ words.
