My Inner Chemistry Had Been Hijacked By

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.

The World's Large Enough And Interesting Enough To Take A Different Approach Each Time You Sit Down To Write About It.

I Never Have Been A Musician; I'm Not Actually Capable. Because I Can't Even Pretend To Acquire The Gift, All Of My First Feelings About Art Are Still Attached To Music. I Look At It Yearningly, I Look At It Wonderingly. I Behold It From Afar, As Something Unattainable, Something Outside Of Myself, From Which I Can Take Nourishment, But I Can't Domesticate And Master.

I Don't Have A Lot Of Paper In My Immediate Work Environment, Except When I'm Doing Things Like Checking The Godforsaken Proofs.

My Heart, To Put It More Simply, Got Nostalgic For The Present. Always A Bad Sign.