Pick up the phone

She's out to write, like a soul in torment..with words like butterfly wings. Whatever, wherever, whoever she may gather must be drawn into her, completely. She's out to write, like a man possessed, like a woman in love and a child being flung into reality..before she forgets, completely.

There are no detours, no roads cut off or locks left unopened..all there is, is today, and time, and her lack of memory; none, that is, to spare for ignorant fools' ill-spoken criticisms. We, after all, are creatures of time, subject to regret and forfeit..all she has left in her are words meant to leave a mark (or scrape one or two off her conscience). Words to encompass all emotion, to escape all shortcomings, to ease all hurt and highlight all of that lack of memory..which, in easy comparison to all, are enough.