Hey there is enough to do that you don’t have to write, there is more magic in these fingers than can be spread out like dark film under a fluorescent light. Suggestions of ideas come to me, word combinations that won’t let me be, I work hard for a month but that backlog won’t let me rest easy. I sit here and ponder, or meditate, I could self-pity, or self-medicate. Write without thought, while you write to express I write to undress myself so I can sleep; I’m in a hurry unpacking these useless clothes, hanging em here on a wire to let dry, it freezes in strange patterns that the angels must have wanted - it coalesces of its own volition, I don’t bother asking why. I discharge my duty and cook my dinner... ever since I moved out the frenzy endless, bending, thanksless has made me hungry and thinner.
Please pass my condolences to your former self, he died a lonely death and is there, on that book you wrote two years ago on your mind's eye's shelf.
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