I have been reading back over my writing from the past few weeks (‘my writing from the past few weeks’; let the phrase echo, and linger over its bitter-sweetness). It is not bad writing, but it is not good writing either. It is rushed, fevered, pouring out of me with a desperation that I admire. It babbles like a child who needs to be heard, but is afraid that she will not be believed. It has the sour tang of fear, the sharp smell of anxious sweat, and I like that. I like the need in the pieces, I like the raw edge of the voice held captive for so long it is unused to speaking, uncomfortable forming the words and piecing them together in phrases and paragraphs.