Have you ever bled words solely to purge the thought, nay, to purge God forsaken pictures from your head? But, how preposterous to ask such a question. Of course you have.

I know what that's like.

Like the tale of the door and the death on the cracked old cement step and the infinite shrieking, but wait, for I get ahead of myself yet again and that's a tale for, perhaps, another day.

She haunts me, that small thin girl with the round and too solemn eyes surrounded by pretty parents, smiling sisters and beautiful babies in ruffled gossamer gowns.

I know what she saw.

Don't tell,the big people told her, afraid. Don't tell, or they'll take you away and lock you up with the crazy people for telling such wild stories and what good will the truth be then?

So she never told.

A penny for your thoughts? the ruggedly pretty but temporary boy said teasingly as he nuzzled her nape, brushing hair from dark eyes decades later and she smiled almost wistfully.

Still, she never told.

It fell on my desk nonchalantly along with dozens lacking the same impact, and once again she haunts me, that silent girl with loud eyes. Because I know.

I know what she saw.

“Writing is finally about one thing: going into a room alone
and doing it. Putting words on paper that have never been there
in quite that way before. And although you are physically
by yourself, the haunting Demon never leaves you,
that Demon being the knowledge of your own
terrible limitations,  your hopeless inadequacy,
the impossibility of ever getting it right.”
William Goldman