It is difficult to think differently when stubbornly holding onto one’s beliefs and peace. We cling like leeches to a satisfying meal of blood, and blood to writers is a state of mind; free-flowing thoughts that transcend the commonplace and warp the world into a desperate place to be, an Eden where all the trees are apple, forbidden and delicious.
That said, I must vacation from my paradise for but a day or two, driven by the serpent to satisfy his needs with unlovely things.
I must, in other words, sit down and prepare my taxes for an early Monday morning meeting with my accountant, who like the IRS, does not appreciate creative bookkeeping.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology