Much of the writing I do (not much to speak of) is inspired by the writing of others, aspiring to be better than the bad, maybe even as good as the good. None of the writing so prompted succeeds. Much of the writing about writing (mine and others, much too much) is deception. Writers are liars. It’s unclear whether you’ve become more active, or if we’ve grown more aware of your activity. There’s a red sticker on the rafter, claimed at auction, there’s a red caution tape, keeping out, there’s a sturdy tape measure, extended, bending earthward, there’s a machine beeping, stealing the silence, there’s a shadow on the carpet, easier on the stomach than the horizon.
When you die I’ll have all your things. When all my things die I’ll not.
Everything is piercing, crushing, unfolding so slowly.
There’s a firm short hair, perfect for nibbling, gnawing, there’s a reminder in the corner of my window, so many reminders. Insider Training and Code of Conduct Training has somehow made it’s way onto my list of goals for the day. Getting out of here has to happen first. The location field has lost all meaning, assigned names and numbers never physical. Concrete referentiality is a crutch I’m reluctant to return. Something to touch an undeniable attraction, delays plastered Typed commas in a query Happen faster.
Many anticipated events call for forgotten skills. If only I could have held it all, all this time. Vocalization needs to be relearned.
Stabilizing, appreciated if not for the best.
The sounds haven’t stopped, there is movement. How much comfort is too much, how little struggle is enough. Groups are gathering and dispersing. Someone suggests we get lickety.
We all want to know when. A quadrant of my mouth is a rock, still very effective at what it’s needed to do. Some flaws should be patched, others embraced.