I might be insane, but the place I feel most at home is a world I made up over a couple decades of creative writing. Hmmm… (for hour 24—prompt: the place I feel most at home; here’s a poem from the history of Onweald)  …

Slowly moving moon Velvet cloak encased waiting Sunrising sublime

the lot in life for a writer solitary time savored the attraction lost on others not so infected alone is not lonely my companions the ideas in my head, struggling to make their way to freedom through fingers artfully laying them across blank pages remaining…

The sleep of the dead, Begins as others awake. Still, dreamless slumber Restores the deprivation. This lack of sleep – Slowly, dreams begin A thin coat of sweat covers me. The sun makes its appearance known, Prying through my eyelids. Sounds of life outside –…

Words swirling, pen scratching. I look in the mirror and I am napping.   Goodnight.