The absence of things to say is remarkable. I'm wondering if I'm turning into a hollow person of little opinion or if its just the fucking manuscript.
My mind has turned its back on all but this one thing. Every step is pounding out syllables. I am casting paragraphs wide and high, netting light posts and telegraph poles pulling them firmly behind me into a single scripted idea. I've caught this narrow world and I'm pushing it stick by stick through my toothed lacerating funnel. I am giant and separate and other while things turn white behind me and my mad plastic machines. This writing. This writing thing is an ascending descent.
My mind has turned its back on all but this one thing. Every step is pounding out syllables. I am casting paragraphs wide and high, netting light posts and telegraph poles pulling them firmly behind me into a single scripted idea. I've caught this narrow world and I'm pushing it stick by stick through my toothed lacerating funnel. I am giant and separate and other while things turn white behind me and my mad plastic machines. This writing. This writing thing is an ascending descent.
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