If only I could make sense of half the gibberish I scribbled while drunk out of my wits, drugged out of my mind, I'd probably have the making of a hundred stories.
They seemed like such a good idea inside my head, in that dark little dungeon with colourful images flirting about, talking, whispering, ah their lovely conversations that I typed furiously in my notes, wrote convulsively in my writing pad only to read them as squiggly lines of erratic imagination and loopy alphabets meaning nothing save a bland trip to the shock therapist.
Hmm, perhaps I need to get drunk a little more to make some more sense out of them, and type and post it right there and then.
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