I wrote something yesterday that was shit.
Well, no, no, not conceptually shit. Not like Monet’s bridge under lights. Foggy piece of shit.
No, in fact, the art of words crapped out on me. And so I shall blame them. Wordshit. Happened to Frost, didn’t you read?
It makes me wonder as I sip and dull the edges with ether: does mastery of the pen fall away like youth? If so, I’m screwed. If not—if, somehow, the reverse were true—then bring on ripe old age. I’ll stagnate in my fruitiness if it means words are plentiful. And fat. And juicy.
In the meantime, I’ll plot with a pen (or a keyboard), and tap away my collusion with riveting sex and deceitful politics. And God. God must be around, or I haven’t a word to stand on.
Thanks for listening, any which way. It keeps me … excited. And that’s really what this is about.