If you can find the way home,
It is my observation that the sanctioned novelists, the next best greats, seem to prefer the personal account of angst, a rendering of ego.
But what’s there really left to say?
He can’t stop being those selfish things
Of drowning in
What one statement surprised her
The scar tissue so calloused by now on the seams of her heart
A cop out
My cup runneth over
It’s an unfamiliar extravagance
In the end
Where to begin?