Everybody's doing this, and you know what I'm like for sheepishness

[desperance]

I picked this up from three or four of my friends: recast your prose as poetry, just to see how it looks from another perspective.

This would be the opening of House of Bells, then:

She had never
really
believed in the guru.

She was a firm believer in herself,
in all her guilt and grief.
And in the noble art of running away,
geographical distance,
that too.

It had seemed enough, once.
Behind her, back in London, where
everything was loud and immediate and unbearable.
Get away, get far away,
be somewhere else. Somebody else.

It had seemed
all too wonderfully attractive,
if she were honest.

She could be honest, sometimes.
If she was paid enough.