(no subject)
I feel feverish. My cheeks flushed and my head carrying it old dull ache. I've found that after a certain point, stress liquefies. And much like unpumped blood, it pools in the places on your body that gravity seems to pull harder on. My head is heavy and ripe with new stories. I think this Fallen Angel series I've started will go far. I can pour into it without end. I still mourn for my serial killer, but it's dead and neatly tucked into my closet.