i miss the times, when whimsical didn’t need to have any reason for it to be anything past doors and frames of my own imagination. i find myself missing the freedom of being this alone with those turns of my mind. even if i still am. it’s feels like something was taken out and scrambled around, thrown and thrashed, and i don’t recall where anything is anymore. it feels like a descent. a slow fall. but i’m afraid that the place, which i once knew will no longer be there, when i land, as i am no longer the same as i used to be once.
.all of my tunes are my own and i shall feel no remorse about them. as i do what my heart feels content with. and what might eventually calm my stormy spirit. with some form of regard, evelyn brewsky. the writer. the nightmare.