She felt depressed again and she knew it meant just one thing - she will have to kill someone again. It was odd how writing a story about a suicide or murder always helped her to get out of that black and sticky mood. She couldn't write anything fluffy or cheerful; not even when she felt that way. However, the gloom, the horror and desperation she could paunt with words in all the glory of endless shades of blakness. Those feelings she knew better than any other, because those were the first ones she encountered. They were engraved in her spinal cord. It didn't matter if she was happily enjoying time with her friends or breathlessly amazed by some beautiful piece of art, there was always this bottomless cliff from which to fall over and over again. 
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