By Kelli Anna

Here is where you meet me. The writer. The artist. The human.

Here in a musty library or a seaside shack. Maybe a scarred table in a weather beaten pub. You sit across from me and we speak in terms of form, mediums, and stanzas. Musical cadences in the voice of ancestors.

You detest my purple prose. Or you love my too cluttered collage. Both or neither, either/or, we reach an understanding that you have entered my space. My bubble. And you will decide if it is a place to seek refuge.