So I started writing. I couldn’t tell you why exactly; it just steamrolled, snowballed. There was nothing I could do. But I don’t exist in the words I type; I don’t speak for them; they don’t speak for me: I wrestle them into the text editor where they obediently, expediently die. I write them to disguise/hide/distract me from this voracious, fancy, blankety-blank-blanketing screen, this yet-another one-size-fits-all modernist scheme—like those crisp suburban homes where the psychopaths dwell; those clean-shaven scalps atop mercenary fiends; the cotton pillowcases on IKEA beds--when you’re sleeping soundly, that's when they strangle all your dreams.
(you cynical, jaded, bitter man!)
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