Words – just stand-alone words – are beautiful. Sometimes, one just gets into my head from somewhere, for no reason, and it becomes a muse.
A very short-lived one. And leaves me with nothing more than a fleeting thought in a volatile string of words urgently pulled and put together.
This section is going to be a simple headstone epitaph to those muses. And gravestone inscriptions these truly are – making not much sense to anyone but the writer, and given to vastly different interpretations.
The Conjecture Girl 