Fitful, he ponders its meaning. John hasn’t moved it from his porch in three days, fear being his master. The package would seem normal to most people but our dear friend is rather terrified. Now this might be perplexing, unless you understood the horror this box causes dear John. He locks himself in his house for days. The food dwindles as apprehension rises. “What can I do,” he thinks. On the fourth day the answer seems as evasive as the…
Words within come unbidden before the eyes struck within my mind. I cannot bear the ache of this unsettled turmoil. Words must come forth or surely the I of self will die. Lost, I fall within the space of convoluted thought, where only imagination can hone my mind to some semblance of clarity. Madness be the disease of word’s caress. I must give. I must be. I am. Words.