These are my thoughts. Bathe in them.
Another birthday, another year. I'm pretty happy right now, I think. Exciting things in motion. Scary things. I don't really have much to say about it, because it still really hasn't sunk in yet. Still seems like some distant, good thing that doesn't happen to schmucks like me. My mood has been frantic lately. I don't really sleep more than a few hours at a time, and I'm always up, rocking in my chair, legs shaking. Listening to punk and hating every bad thing there is out there. Wishing things were better. I don't know what's going on with my book. It took Danielewski ten years to finish House of Leaves, which is maybe the most literary (read: pretentious) contemporary book that I happen to have on hand. Joyce took seven for Ulysses. Seventeen for Finnegans Wake. I hope I don't take longer than the five years I had planned. I have five years from this point on to finish my first book. It's not going to be very big. I want to condense everything down to it's most basic, concise form. Sometimes, it seems so fucking hard, like hard even for me. I guess, that's the way good things are. What an empty aphorism. I feel good about this livejournal post. The emotion of the hour is "ambivalence". This is the feeling for my book. That feeling that you're in transit, between worlds. Like, I'm in the hallway between two rooms, and I'm finished with the room I just left, and I'm anxious about what's in the next one. Probably something scary. I don't even care about my birthday.