The monsters weren't under my bed, they were hiding inside my head. With no way to flee, they kept watch while searching for an escape hatch. If I were a painter, I'd draw you a picture (without a flaw) of a monster waiting to flee, but as I never found the key to artistry, they're locked away behind steel bars without a say in the matter. If they could help me describe, instead of just yelp like a beaten dog, I could write their way out into bright sunlight. But my monsters are neurotic and hang out with a psychotic demon in the lobes of my brain, you'd think this would drive me insane, and it has before, long ago, they don't fit in with my ego, but times were tough and in the past, I learned to tie them to the mast (the trunk of a conifer tree) on a schooner and let them be. Let them ponder their evil thoughts in a mind that cannot be bought.
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