Recipe for writing a novel.

1 cup of music;

2 tons of meat and flesh, congealed into the form of humans;

10 pounds of brain matter, tenderized;

1 car load of night time;

a full moon;

an bakers dozen of sleep depravation;

1 laptop;

a "fire hazard" worth of candles;

and sode-pop;

Insert the two tons of human flesh blobs into the the music, mixed with the bakers dozen of sleep depravation and the full moon.  Bake for 2 to 3 hours, then insert candles, laptop, and a night I won't soon forget (not in a sexual way but an awesome, 'OMG!' kind of way.)

Result; Awesome.

For once, in a very, very, VERY, long time, I am happy again.  But, always is it tainted with what I am, who I am, and what I have done.