Twelve

I paw at my books like a cat asking for dinner. Any more sleepless nights and I won’t know if my dreams are dreams anymore. I can’t say I’m sure now. Tobias’ voice over the phone was blunted and hazy, as if his throat was eroding. Was it him talking to me, or just a figment crafted by insomnolence?

The hands on the clock speed past as I spread my thoughts across the bed in chronological order. Novels, they may be, but they came from inside me. There must be more to this than merely coincidence or a twisted play by fate. Maybe I missed something. Maybe I gave more to my readers than I intended.

Interpretation of my work has always been questionable. Unplanned, subliminal messages apparently roam each and every piece, hidden in the pages l...

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