Tonight

... seems like it's spinning, a vortex. Quite literally, actually.

And the ideas, they are coming faster and more frequently, and I can't write them down fast enough to retain their magic.

She opened the door again, a sweet drink of ginger and honey, and there they all were; all my pretties, banging on the door until their hands were raw, and their wrists bled the light from them. Now they file in, one by one, two by two, and my own fingers hurt from committing them to digitised format.

My head continues to spin.
Sleep escapes me.
He eludes me.

But at least I'm writing again.