Put the words side by side, parallel or adjacent. Make them converge or let them circumvent around the centre of the page. Then watch them burn, look up to the flames and the colours they produce, look at the purple that loses itself to smoke. Then relish it, place that pen on the oblong and see blood dripping down the length of the white sheet, touch it, inhale it. It smells like 1987’s russian wine. Break the pen, sabotage its being, debilitate it. Destroy everything, then tear the notebook to shreds of stained paper. Clean your nails, some of the words escaped to hide beneath them. Jump, move, some hide beneath your rotten feet. Untie your hair, let them be free from the carcasses of the words you just burnt. Run, run, run. Sit down underneath a cold shower, undress yourself, rub rub rub. Get rid of them. Form triangles with the foam of bath wash and lie down on the bathroom floor, don’t move. Don’t.
Unleash the dark writer in you.