This cold heart of mine lays naked, wrapped in nothing but a blanket of shivering skin. Whilst my spiderfingers spin stories the world around me crumbles. Writing annihilates reality.

Sometimes, or should I say most of times, my carefully constructed word-world is far more tangible and comprehensible than the world outside with its exploding bombs and political jargon. Here, morning equals mourning and the characters are ghostly, ghastly, gruesome. The queen of insomnia rules with an iron hand.
Whatever darkness exists here, it is mine. A conjunction of confusion, fluster and a few drops of chimera. Some would consider it nightmare fodder, but to me this gloomy fantasy world feels strangely comforting, almost as if it were a refuge.