Why Am I Awake? (pt IV)

I met a girl in one of my classes. 

At first, I think she was scared of me. I’ll admit, I do look like a creep. I have a doughy face, uneven stubble, short and awkward frame--standing still, I trembled. I couldn’t even carry myself well. If someone watched me walk, they might think I was an extension of a Picasso poem.

But then, after some time, maybe she then liked me. I spoke a lot. Mostly because nobody else would. 

Now I’m really getting it. Having someone to think about while writing is all writing ever is. The Greeks had Muses as Gods--that must mean something. Having a muse is like having a God.

But it’s a lastless faith.

A placeholder sentence.

Author's Note

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