this large body of writing I was just working on crashed and erased into thin air. I have to bite the bullet on stuff like that, and put less trust into these little apps. the process for real is in writing from line to line anyway. what gets erased, I can always generate more. let this serve as a lesson not to hold onto even the immediate past, what you think is the present. the present is also that next string of words up ahead of you. can you foresee? go, run, surprise yourself.
before I was writing of this fictional, very awake man, who went about the room at a frantic pace cleaning and setting everything around him in order. I described him as having carbon hands, whatever that means. maybe – copy what you saw the last guy do, mimic his idea, take, borrow from. no, go drink a Dr. Pepper. wait, what am I saying?
I was in the middle of telling you fidgeting moments like what happens to a toothpick in the hands of a fidgeter. it cracks in half. crack! quietly. like this morning, snow from overnight had turned to ice so hard that my ice scraper smashed to pieces trying to get it all off. throughout the course of the day the remaining ice sun-stroked the windshield wateriness while I was inside working, color separating, and trapping. my engine felt new liquids. it was Monday.
I’ll take up a new coarse. I’ll have to be more honest because Time looks like it’s not staying for dinner. have to be sharper or the rest of the world . . . you get the goddamn picture. If you’re reading this and you know who you are, then good for you. I’ve always liked you. I’m sorry I can’t give shoe-laced purports like you’re used to. this is going to be my own thing and from now on I’ll be stepping up with a sword. I’ll fight my own wars.
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