I don't know where the fucker is hiding right now but I had to tell you that this is the first mosquito that has followed me into my slumber. And it upset a dream to the point that in my state of subconscious I was hurtling across a series of epiphanies to realize that one of the big barriers in my attaining my highest creative state so-to-speak is my father! Surprise!!!
He is also, now that I think about it, the sole trigger for any imagination in me in the first place, if one is to believe that poetry spurts from suppression.
The point of this post is I woke up at two in the morning and penned it all down. It got me to write. I thank the mosquito by slapping it dead on my diary's page. It has clearly left a mark.
He is also, now that I think about it, the sole trigger for any imagination in me in the first place, if one is to believe that poetry spurts from suppression.
The point of this post is I woke up at two in the morning and penned it all down. It got me to write. I thank the mosquito by slapping it dead on my diary's page. It has clearly left a mark.
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