The summer has been my own art intensive. Hours lavishing in obscure, dark music with pianos and female voices. Cha-cha-cha the sound of my pen scratching paper. Art books under my desk at work. Yellow lamplight spilled across wood floors covered in sketches. Anguish over blank pages. The trash bin fills up with imaginary people and places, each of them have a bit of me in them. Candles lit every morning to set the mood and prevent distractions. Absorbed. I just wanted to be left alone to write stories and draw my characters. I had to prove to myself that I could still write so I threw myself into that creative abyss.