MY WRITERS’ BLOCK does not exist (or so I’ve been told); its name is the very
pulse of this story, yearning to be unleashed from the confines of my churning
chest — a writhing tangle of Medusa’s serpents itching to be deployed.
IT CAN BE anything it so desires: a peach-fuzzed dream hanging
ripe on the buckling bough of a faraway tree in that golden hour—
waiting to be plucked just beyond the window of my imagination.