Last night, in the dark following midnight I killed my muse (suffocating her quietly with a pillow) and buried her in my back garden. Today I will plant a roses to hide the grave. No one will ever know and I will be free at last of her insidious hold and I will be able to write what I want.
Why did I resort to this deed? After all my muse was lovely and gave me many gifts over the years. She saw me through dark times and helped mark the joyous ones. Many times she inspired…