The Past Is Still Visible. The Buildings

So Much Of The Effort That Goes Into Writing Prose For Me Is About Making Sentences That Capture The Music That I'm Hearing In My Head. It Takes A Lot Of Work, Writing, Writing, And Rewriting To Get The Music Exactly The Way You Want It To Be.

I Can't Bear The Silent Ringing In My Skull.

You Don’t Have The Slightest Idea Of What It Means To Write A Scene And A Character In The English Language, With Images And Words Chock Full Of Received Meaning.

Those Promises We Make To Ourselves When We Are Younger, About How We Mean To Conduct Our Adult Lives, Can It Be True We Break Every Last One Of Them? All Except For One, I Suppose: The Promise To Judge Ourselves By Those Standards, The Promise To Remember The Child Who Would Be So Appalled By Compromise, The Child Who Would Find Jadedness Wicked.

Insomnia Is A Variant Of Tourette's--the Waking Brain Races, Sampling The World After The World Has Turned Away, Touching It Everywhere, Refusing To Settle, To Join The Collective Nod. The Insomniac Brain Is A Sort Of Conspiracy Theorist As Well, Believing Too Much In Its Own Paranoiac Importance--as Though If It Were To Blink, Then Doze, The World Might Be Overrun By Some Encroaching Calamity, Which Its Obsessive Musings Are Somehow Fending Off.