It gave voice to the demons, the supernatural voices wisping between my ears and whispering, the self-defeating tongues spoken with various sources few and far-flung...
It re-ordered my mind and helped me stack words on top of each other like giant Jenga structures thrusting upward punctuating through the sky, piercing cloud layers and spiking all those prayers to God that go unanswered, littering down upon the ground in spiral dances...
It gave me a place to rest my cares and allowed me to travel down innerspace highways unfettered by worry, unchained by fear, left to roam prowling about the surface of an ash-coated wasteland...
It gave me a shot at perfection, a chance to see God in the morning, naked and unadorned, vulnerable, disrobed and hair askew, and it also gave me dinner reservations with The Devil on a nightly basis, conversations and cigars over a meal, brokering the deal to my soul...
Writing remade me in its own image. I'm just a clone. An arm from Henry Miller, a leg from Kurt Vonnegut, cartilage cut from the septum of William Burroughs, and possibly Terry Southern's spleen...
I am a literary Frankenstein monster but I bleed real blood and cry real tears, even if they were stolen from the graves of poets and authors... the dead tissue reanimated, electricity's spark causing everything to come alive...
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