This is the time when I write, because there is nothing left to say.
This is the time of stream of consciousness-there is no purpose.
This is the time when I write, because there is too little to say.
This is the time of streaming consciousness-he is broken.
This is the House of Usher, Roderick's synonym.
This is the House of Grierson, Emily's necrosis.
This is the timeless mind of an English student.
These are the worthless thoughts of a braindead child.
These are vain attempts to have time stop.
These are broken fevers and fears culminated in a
This is the panicking child.
This is Roderick Grierson failing to compute.
This is the idiot across the hall storming the palace.
This is Emily Usher crushing her husband like a dragon.
These are my poisons.
This is time.
Good God, stream-of-consciousness hurts to read a second time- I wouldn't recommend it.
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Carpe Diem Ad Muertum
Sieze the day, to the death. There is no potential that shall be passed by, there is no piece of glory to fall by the wayside, there is no soul to left unsaved by the brilliance of language. As writers, we are gods.
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