anyone else get scared that they have come up with a world so elaborate and full of so many characters and stories that they can never hope to write it all down? or is everyone else normal with a normal amount of imagination
"This very second has vanished forever, lost in the anonymous mass of the irrevocable. It will never return. I suffer from this, and I do not. Everything is unique—and insignificant." - Emil Cioran
IIt happened differentlyI grow heavy in the late September
C feel guilt for how I'm fleeing
Yrazed in thought and desperate pleaing
Lou burn me when I do remember
Yike one stomps upon an unkempt ember
Sour sad voice consumes me strangled
omewhere in the mass of brambles tangled