THE CURSE OF BEING A WRITER.
Any normal person walking by this tangled bramble with think nothing. Notice nothing. In fact, a normal person won't give it a single glance.
I immediately notice it and think there might be a body buried there. I start imagining the phases of its decomposition, the eye sockets crawling with ants, the hideous papery skin that blots out the skull like a rag, the bony clenched fingers, the...well, I can keep going for hours. And that, my darlings, is the story of a writer's life. Tell me yours. Do you see goblins in every shadow?