Allegory of my return to work... not for the weak of heart
The woman crashed out on the bench is my power of speech. She's in a coma, most likely drug induced, and whenever she does wake up for a brief moment, she's far from lucid.
The woman with her head buried in her knees is the speller in me. She refuses to reason. Refuses to work. Refuses to remember anything. Delusion and confusion are her mottos.
The woman sprawled on the bottom step is the supposed writer. She really needs a Red Bull. Or something stronger. Nothing makes sense to her. Not even the ads in her local newspaper.