So close. So fucking close.

On the cusp of a migraine, monitors make it worse, but lying alone in the dark is worst of all.

It feels like every storyline I've ever conjured up, every significant memory of persons and places past are crashing into each other, and if I could just push through the pain, everything would be cohesive; I'd have an epic work. It's right there, and my entire being is burning for it.

(Those of you in the know are aware that my body temperature elevates when I submerge myself completely in writing, but it's a bit of a soul-burn, too.)