I feel the story, but it can't come through me. These drugs keep it from moving through me. The drugs that keep my brain from having electrical storms do other things to my mind, snarl things up. The story gets caught in there, tangled.
They take away from my body and they take away from my mind.
They don't take the story away. Nothing can. But they keep me from getting to it consistently. They keep it from getting out cleanly. They make of my head a wild snarl of thorns, and my mind can't move without bleeding.
I can write this much because it is me talking.
But everything I write tonight is me talking. The story changes shape when I try to push it through the thorns.
I need to let it go.