From November
When I started writing my book, I didn't really have any idea how to get the words far enough outside my own mouth that they'd resemble anything other than my own thoughts. I didn't realize until later that thoughts come in such incredible variety that all I had to do was scoop out every last little spoonful of synaptic soup and no distance would be necessary to overlap with everyone.
Still, the magnification of momentary dreamings remains an uneasy task, and to engage in such arrogance is childish and self-aggrandizing. Which means it is hard, but it feels really good. Like so much of life, ay? That's right sex demons, I'm talking about movement. Change. Evo-fucking-lution.
Right now I'm running in circles. Well, more like ovals I guess, and the ground is blue beneath my feet, and my back is starting to hurt. My neck. My shoulders. Legs running still, even as the rest of me melts off to
Monday last.
I'm back at my computer, typing madly every thought that passes through my thick skull-fingers onto the poisonous glowing screen, and I'm thinking about how I haven't run in how long? Five, six weeks? A deadly disease of the most curable kind, I realize I'm infected. I pull and push my fingertips on the black keys, and every stroke pushes me, pulls me. Can you hear the tapping at your membrane's door? I don't know how this has come or where it is going, but it's here now, so hear now.
That means listen the fuck up, people.
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I mean, c'mon, haven't you ever done this before? What could possess you to hold it all back?
Still, the magnification of momentary dreamings remains an uneasy task, and to engage in such arrogance is childish and self-aggrandizing. Which means it is hard, but it feels really good. Like so much of life, ay? That's right sex demons, I'm talking about movement. Change. Evo-fucking-lution.
Right now I'm running in circles. Well, more like ovals I guess, and the ground is blue beneath my feet, and my back is starting to hurt. My neck. My shoulders. Legs running still, even as the rest of me melts off to
Monday last.
I'm back at my computer, typing madly every thought that passes through my thick skull-fingers onto the poisonous glowing screen, and I'm thinking about how I haven't run in how long? Five, six weeks? A deadly disease of the most curable kind, I realize I'm infected. I pull and push my fingertips on the black keys, and every stroke pushes me, pulls me. Can you hear the tapping at your membrane's door? I don't know how this has come or where it is going, but it's here now, so hear now.
That means listen the fuck up, people.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I mean, c'mon, haven't you ever done this before? What could possess you to hold it all back?