Strange things like moldy butterscotch cookies, saved and then forgotten. Horrible things like maces and guillotines and guns, shoved in the sock drawer. But poems, too, about love and life and whatever’s in my head. A flair for the dramatic, stuffed in the hall closet with Plays and Novels and Stories. Phantom piano music coming from the attic. A shelf for trinkets like statues and pictures and dogs. Notes you know are there, but can’t ever seem to find. Intentional misunderstanding of the word rest. Cliffs and mountains and peaks to climb. Refusal to abide by the rules. Words with the power to arrange themselves, if only I pick up a pen. A story of a girl with a jam-packed head that is just so fun to write about.