The tower was filled with breaking. Breaking wills, breaking minds, breaking cries. At every turn, every landing, even every stairwell, Saqalu draped and twisted, wings out, faces stretched, and if they were aware of me at all, they told me to run.

Bear with me. As I write this post, I’m more than a little mad. And I don’t mean “crazy,” either. I encountered a fellow the other day who spoke things so poisonous, so deadly to the creative mind, that I suspect he’s already left a battalion of writer-corpses in his wake.

And I’m not staying silent about it anymore.