The Problem With Imagination.

I went into my bathroom tonight and was suddenly beset by a vivid flash of imagination. Something was in my house and approaching me – something which the most extremely speculative reasoning couldn’t possibly account for; something which clearly had no right to be there. It was surprisingly scary, especially since it allowed the possibility of a repeat encounter.

I considered whether I should write it down as a piece of fiction since it had a commendable hint of Murakami about it. But you see, all the scary stuff I wrote during my period of writing scary stuff never scared me. Why would it? My imagination was, after all, just having fun. This wasn’t fun, so I probably won’t.