Sometimes I sit down and wonder what happened to the things I used to write. I have this vision of sprawling, rotting, black worlds that have been abandoned for millennia, and all that remains are the strangest people in them, mutated in the mind and body. It's strange to realise that since I came into fandom and begun experimenting with fanfiction I've clipped down my style, trimmed the decadence and fitted into a shape not my own, playing by imposing constraints. Saying 'today, I will find a way to write something with as little description as possible'. But then, I've learned about things like plot, and how to balance description with action. And I wonder, whether the trade was worth it. I think it was. But I want the decadence back. The smoke and the kisses, the night blooming flowers and necrophillia. So, this monster of a story that's lurking in my mind can be the vessel I'll pour it all down into.

It's worth a try, after all.