I Worry About Images. Images Are What

Uncharged With Invisible Meaning, The Visible Is Nothing, Mere Clay; And Without Visible Circumstance, A Territory, To Connect To, Our Spirit Is Shapeless, Nameless, And Undefined.

I Knew He Was Unreliable, But He Was Fun To Be With. He Was A Child’s Ideal Companion, Full Of Surprises And Happy Animal Energy. He Enjoyed Food And Drink. He Liked To Try New Things. He Brought Home Coconuts, Papayas, Mangoes, And Urged Them On Our Reluctant Conservative Selves. On Sundays He Liked To Discover New Places, Take Us On Endless Bus Or Trolley Rides To Some New Park Or Beach He Knew About. He Always Counseled Daring, In Whatever Situation, The Courage To Test The Unknown, An Instruction That Was Thematically In Opposition To My Mother’s.

Planning To Write Is Not Writing. Outlining, Researching, Talking To People About What You're Doing, None Of That Is Writing. Writing Is Writing.

Images Break With A Small Ping, Their Destruction Is As Wonderful As Their Being, They Are Essentially Instruments Of Torture Exploding Through The Individual's Calloused Capacity To Feel Undifferentiated Emotions Full Of Longing And Dissatisfaction And Monumentality.

Writing Is Immensely Difficult. The Short Forms Especially.