The Idyll Is Over

There will come creeping a shadow time, perhaps that shadow time is now, a morbid tracery of your own self's rebellion, when you awake with a start, falling out of love with the essence of your being, gasping for your literary oxygen, your reason for being something rather than nothing. Characters on the printed page and in your imagination become the lovelorn orphans of your secret ways, your literary joy-decayed fate…