It kind of actually occurred to me before that I might make some kind of writer. I read the rules, been part of them for a while, spreading what I could onto whatever notebook or journal I had handy. But this has definitely been enough. No more years can go by without my finishing this book. It'd be a shame to keep all those well-meaning, well-intentioned assholes deprived of such a good story.

I used to love how people thought I was nuts or on the lunatic fringe of things, but even that's turned to shit. I grew tired of the saying "If we were all the same, the world would be a boring place," the first time I heard it, you know.

I can be accused foremost with plying streams of consciousness and then not rereading any of it. So what?

But I'm not worried, really. I have this in my heart and since I don't have a place far from here yet, it'll just have to be a matter of the slow motion installations panning down from the rise to literary greatness.

(Plus, "Return to Cookie Mountain", TV on the Radio's new "regrouping" joint is supposed to come out this next Tuesday, so how can I not bound with optimism right now?)

previous - next