In a love / hate relationship with this story. It tugs at me. I shove it away and it crawls back in, sneaking through the cracks. I try to ignore it but it screams. I love it achingly and intensely but it overwhelms me. Can’t sleep because it talks to me constantly, but when it gets quiet, I panic.
Writing is glorious and torturous and shines lights into all your hidden places and scares the hell out of you and yet makes you feel so damn euphoric and I can’t stop.
Notes in the Margins 