Slow crazy

There is no time to write the great novel. The characters in my head are just another set of voices added to the constant sonic assault of "Momma, Momma, Momma...", that fills my every waking moment. My greatest creative works are five and eight years old and very chatty.

Somehow they are not the great works of philosophy, spirituality, and selfish achievement I had envisioned when I pondered how my creative energy would manifest in my life. There are still miracles; evidence of a higher power beyond understanding.

But things are getting serious. The voices in my head have hired an attorney. They are demanding equal time.

Now I know the true meaning of "slow crazy".