Polypersephone

She is the many-faced wonder of my mind. each face more beautiful than the last, each with beauty unmatched. She is the curse bearer within me, that casts spells to enchant and invoke me to create as I spill the bloodwords from my fingertips. I twist and writhe between her lovely fingers, all the while she smiles and conjures another thought to push from my head to the paper. If there was an easier way, such as osmosis by slamming and holding my head to the paper, she would toy with the idea, but where is the fun in efficiency in creation? 'tis far much more pleasing to see the wordblood seep down from the cranium through, the neck, past the shoulders, down the arm, and pass the the fingers onto the page ever so slowly.

She may seem to be engulfed in black clothing, but it's more like the color of a black hole in space, absorbing every photon of light around it. The process may sound heartwrenchingly painful and macabre, but it's a process of love and imagination. Angels look like demons to those who fight against them.