I needed a bed to tuck the monsters underneath. I found myself
expelling every crippling thing onto paper, like I was feeding my
soul with ink. That's why I started writing. I guess I could have
learned how to fold paper cranes, or attended another seminar
on how to stop using thumbtacks to control my anger, but I
digress. Do you know what it's like to feel so unclean that you
try all the wrong things to get a smidge closer to "purity"? If you
do, then you can connect to the poems and prose that you're
about to read. This book is my distillery. Was my distillery? It is,
and was, and always will be. It's my everything and nothing.
Oh, along my journey I also wrote some positive pieces and
placed them in here, for there is always a silver lining.