A collection of random thoughts of love, life, manic highs, depressing lows and shear angered outbursts.
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The idea grips me, grabs at me, pushes and pulls. The story holds out until the players decide to reveal who they are, what they want and how they will get it.
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In the wee hours of the morning, they shake me awake. They want to talk, but I need sleep. I'm too incoherent to me understand what they are saying. They won't let me rest at all during the day. They consume my thoughts, all talking at once, not waiting their turn. It's tiring sometimes. Downright exhausting.
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I have a story, a plot I can't seem to get out of head into a competent plot. It's been 11 years and its killing me. Smh. I am dying with this story still inside.
