From @TheOtherBanana:
Writing was the only way she could escape her reality. Her psychiatrist called it therapy. She didn’t care what it was called. She had the ability to spin dreams, weave words into textures as smooth as spun silk and as luscious as the finest Egyptian cotton. They were her companion and every word; a spell.
Writing was the only way she could escape her reality. Her psychiatrist called it therapy. She didn’t care what it was called. She had the ability to spin dreams, weave words into textures as smooth as spun silk and as luscious as the finest Egyptian cotton. They were her companion and every word; a spell.
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