So I'll write this for @kseniaanske, who will know where it came from, perhaps. Also, I'm listening to Dexter Gordon on Spotify, because his tenor saxophone makes love to my ear.
It was a long time ago, and I was not yet a man. The tendrils of Fall etched themselves in the greying skies and rains of sleet promised slush and chill. I loved to read then. I made my home in books, and my schoolwork suffered immensely as a result, but the scorn of the teachers was eminently worth it, for I visited places in faraway lands and even remote planets, with skies of cotton candy and lands of the driest sand.
But I was not yet a man, and my mind wandered carefree, and sometimes would lose itself a little too much in the tales and I imagined the unreal become real, the imagining become tangible; a life of a child, carefree, but I was full of doubts and questioned my sanity. They too saw it, all those old people, and they stayed away, for in my obtuseness I insisted on being right, and never stood those who disagreed.
I grew older, you know. The women came and went, ghostly apparitions to my moated heart castle, and they too abandoned me to my wiles. Some, granted, tried, but the waters of sadness were treacherous, and madness never far, so they too fled to greener pastures.
Books were my refuge, my joy, the wandering lands of my late teen years, and I profited of their company, and in letting them in I traveled the length and breadth of all the lands, in all times, past and future, and was on ships and in the air, in tunnels underground and also London's underground.
The paths were tortuous in the sunlight, and my soul still yearns, these many years later, to escape the monotonous grind and leap like Icarus from the cliff's edge and soar on the winds with wings made by bees.
But I have grown, and in stature and girth, and I now require more substantial fare in words, and long for phrases of affairs and dark tales, for my life isn't fair and the darkness within and the screams barely cover the beast, so I look for words to mirror the disarray within, but I find them not in the bookstores of the world, nor, save, rarely, in the snippets on twitter.
Will you write the book I can read and assure myself I'm not mad, no longer crazy?
Or must I do that myself too?
Muse of mine, help me with the task, for I am already feeble of mind and must rely on you, and if you stay silent, surely I will die.