Can I take a step back in? Or do the waves rise too steeply before me?
Where has the writer been, you may wonder, for it has been the passing of a moon or two since they bore out their story for their empty auditorium of faceless spectors. Where have they been then?
Occupied.
Saturated
by reality.
No room for fantasy. Even in dreams they work, crawl, fail.
But no longer. They’re back now. Ready to face the current.
A new flame burns overhead. A red fiery passion.
What new world is this?
Words fall from their head like juice dripping from a ripe nectarine. The writer licks their lips.
Something sweet awaits.
euananthony 
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