Writing for me is less "cafes and avant-garde" and more "suppressing the urge to stop traffic and knock on a random person's door asking if I can take pictures of that really cool dead tree in their yard"
I want to tell a story. When I was in like 3rd grade, I went with my mom while she dropped some drugs off (yes, she was). Anyways. She left me in the car. This guys comes out to โwatchโ me and itโs just me and him. He looks over and asks. โYou donโt know what a haiku is, do you?โ
Stop asking me "wyd." You know I killed a man, hid the body, and now find myself tormented by the sound of his still-beating heart beneath the floorboards