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The sun plays games with the clouds, as a settling chill overtakes the house. My mother was going to pester about her heating bill, but realized how drafty this place really is.

Ah, perfectly well for a thing such as I.

Even still, it’s magnanimously delusional to assume otherwise – the age old…”just wear layers” is no longer suitable.

Concrete and old structures don’t mix, that’s common sense.

The allure hadn’t worn off, I am shocked. Numbers went down then spiked again. I won’t see rest for a while. I should curl up in my coffin weekender bag, and hide myself away. It’s not big enough, but the idea has bounced around in my head for a while.

There is a sense of awe for my existence, but rest doesn’t seem to be riddled in the fairytale that continuously jots down lines, soliloquies and utterances that probably need deciphering.

Mulling over everything, I am left with starting something, and certainly finishing it. But that there is no ending or beginning – so we flow the way we go.

Which lead me to trying on sheer lined gothic style dresses, with matching veils and my ever faithful gothic window ring – complete with all the details…and a windowless core.

I revel at myself, editing was quintessential, the book reads insanely well. I have written others, nothing is in comparison to this novel.

So the small moments I have now, I realize, are those moments for resting. It was wishful thinking otherwise. But one can dream.

I’d like to sleep for a thousand years, and act surprised when I wake up.