and I took it to my bed,
took it for my own. Clothed
in white, killed by firelight.
Mary searched her roof, found
the tub empty-- my stomach full,
bloated with wool.
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"Listen to me. All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. And there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don't matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake." -Jean Rhys
Inspirations
- fear
- what I thought I heard
- between asleep and awake
- a honey bee
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