hello darling
okay, well, i have to write something, and this is the least productive option. (i could justify that somehow under "getting started" or "ordering thoughts"...) there are very many things i need and/or want to do, but curiously all i tend to do is plan, vegetate, daydream, repeat. i'm not going to qualify that either, all you literalist literati. (...) there's something very frightening about the comic heroes who can't be dissuaded that their destinies are great and imminent (haven kimmel, john kennedy toole, borges i suppose) and that's about all that's keeping me from crafting lovely smooth marble excuses by hand. what's the secret vaccine for ridiculousness? i suppose it's a sense of place and belonging; get that down and really the worst you can do is mediocrity. at least i don't feel martyred just yet. disregard first message, there may yet be hope.
anyway, so i'm good, how are things with you? i hope that stuff we talked about last time has worked itself out; chin up, chin up! hope to hear from you soon... it's been a long time, it seems. how do these things happen?
(here's a gran cauchemar for you: what if by some chance greatness does slow and hand you abord, point out a tiny seat between sumo giants in the cacophony of a visionless era? you will die; you will be forgotten; you will disintegrate. here is immortality, a pompous opportunist massaging your best hopes into a handful of nubile undergraduate resentment.) oh bollocks, what are we playing at here? i'm going to get to work.
anyway, so i'm good, how are things with you? i hope that stuff we talked about last time has worked itself out; chin up, chin up! hope to hear from you soon... it's been a long time, it seems. how do these things happen?
(here's a gran cauchemar for you: what if by some chance greatness does slow and hand you abord, point out a tiny seat between sumo giants in the cacophony of a visionless era? you will die; you will be forgotten; you will disintegrate. here is immortality, a pompous opportunist massaging your best hopes into a handful of nubile undergraduate resentment.) oh bollocks, what are we playing at here? i'm going to get to work.