I know I'm falling again because the writing don't come out easy no more. Actually, it comes out easy, it comes out plenty—but it's no good, lemme tell ya.
It's like I'm this big paint bucket that's been filled with all the colors. And somebody tied me up to the ceiling and tipped me over so all I can do is vomit out nonsense in a loop.
Don't get me wrong—I like it. I like it because it also makes me feel like a matador. I have to hunt her, I have to coax her out, and make her see red. And there is nothing more thrilling than feeling her horns brush my ribcage.