Some Mornings... I Sit At The Kitchen

Structural Dissatisfaction: Returning To Circumstances That Once Pleased You, After Having Experienced A More Thrilling Or Opulent Way Of Life, And Finding That You Can No Longer Tolerate Them.

I Haven’t Had Trouble With Writer’s Block. I Think It’s Because My Process Involves Writing Very Badly. My First Drafts Are Filled With Lurching, Clichéd Writing, Outright Flailing Around. Writing That Doesn’t Have A Good Voice Or Any Voice. But Then There Will Be Good Moments. It Seems Writer’s Block Is Often A Dislike Of Writing Badly And Waiting For Writing Better To Happen.

And Alex Understood That Scotty Hausmann Did Not Exist. He Was A Word Casing In Human Form: A Shell Whose Essence Has Vanished.

We Stand There, Quiet. My Questions All Seem Wrong: How Did You Get So Old? Was It All At Once, In A Day, Or Did You Peter Out Bit By Bit? When Did You Stop Having Parties? Did Everyone Else Get Old Too, Or Was It Just You? Are Other People Still Here, Hiding In The Palm Trees Or Holding Their Breath Underwater? When Did You Last Swim Your Laps? Do Your Bones Hurt? Did You Know This Was Coming And Hide That You Knew, Or Did It Ambush You From Behind?

A Swell Of Gratitude And Appreciation For His Assistant, As Opposed To The Murderous Rage He Felt Toward The Rest Of His Staff