1 – “Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.” - Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five2 – “Alice could not help her lips curling up into a smile as she began: “Do you know, I always thought Unicorns were fabulous monsters, too? I never saw one alive before!” “Well, now that we have seen each other,” said the Unicorn, “if you’ll believe in me, I’ll believe in you. Is that a bargain?” - Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass, chapter VII3 – “I'll publish right or wrong: Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.” - Lord Byron, English Bards & Scotch Reviewers4 - “I had only a little time left and I didn't want to waste it on God.” - Albert Camus, The Stranger5 – “Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in...
…I can't go out there. Someone might see me. They might stand too close to me. Then what? Then it all begins all over again. It all unfolds again. The rapid heartbeat, the stomach churning perspiration, the nausea…I need a cigarette…jeezus. Wondering which words are the lies. Wondering what it might be like to be some microscopic explorer…wandering around, lurking and crawling in all of their hidden caverns…wondering what sort of magical or repulsive truth may be hidden there. Sometimes, I don't want to know. Sometimes, I don't want to explore. Sometimes, it's just better to hide…to crouch in the darkness where they can't touch me can't hurt me can't tell me any stories, no, no, no…nice and safe and I'm ok here….and I have a pen…and this brand new notebook – no one can touch me here. No one can tempt me into pretending that anything is real because I know that here in my shadows it's all real…all real and...
I don't know what a writer is. I am not a writer…or, am I? It sounds strange to my ears when someone else refers to me as being a writer. I work a day job. I don't sit around at the fucking Starbucks with a laptop. I haven't made a dime from doing this, regardless of the amount of people I may have entertained with the written word. The chair that I'm sitting in came from a Village Inn restaurant. So did the other three chairs in my kitchen and the table that they stand guard around. I'm in the spare bedroom of my apartment up on the third floor, trying to block out the sounds of the people down at the swimming pool. It's after Labor Day. The sonofabitch ought to be closed now, anyway.Is this the life of a writer? A miserable wretch getting drunk in front of a computer screen, chain-smoking while they click out gibberish? I...
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