For weeks I have travelled from one room to another. I have nothing but memories, dreams and cut glass in my hands. I have the taste of fear in my mouth. I have one dark thought that hangs above me which thunders when it rains. Everything is in ruins. The morning has been covered by a blanket. The rivers are angry and the ditches are dry. We are in September now, weren't we here before? The Writer's Anonymous is in session -- all quiet and rise.
How exclusively lost are we.