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.
