The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink. ~T.S. Eliot
I don’t claim to be a literature-ist but still, my writing is blood, my blood spilled onto paper. I cannot write any other way. I don’t want to write any other way.
I slice my soul and let the blood pour onto blank paper, unlined paper and smear it around until words form, smear until words arrange themselves into sentences, smear until all that remains are vignettes of my experiences drying on the page.
Many works were disguised fearing the succubus return to scrape my blood off the page, siphon out my twitching soul, and sell it to the evilest bidder leaving me to wander empty. Wander limp, useless, death lurking in my eye. Wander soulless over Earth ever searching, never finding. A lump of lumbering, human waste destined to decay into eternity. Forever forgotten. Never forgetting. I might as well never existed having never made an impact worth remembering.
