The place at the back of my mind is the place I go to write.
It doesn't have a name. I don't live there, I simply visit. And I try not to stay too long.
It can be quite dark and dank; sometimes a little unnerving. It usually rains. The trees are black and crooked. Crows stare at me. The sky is the colour of wet ash. Lightning strikes silently and the air smells of charcoal.
But this place feeds my imagination. There are many useful emotions there - like trepidation, revulsion, need, desire and a little psychological terror. When things die in this place they don't do it nicely, and they certainly don't go quietly...and sometimes they don't stay dead.
Things in this place are always hungry, even the trees.
Like I said, I don't stay too long. But it whispers to me while I'm there: cold, sticky fingers of suggestion prising their way toward the front of my mind. It is trying to get out, but I must only allow a little at a time.
The place at the back of the mind: a little piece of Gothic paradise.