| I wonder what would happen if I |
[Mar. 31st, 2008|02:08 pm] |
I have a weird sunken feeling and I keep dreaming about rusty terrorism from a bygone era. Eastern Europeans in balaclavas with Kalashnikovs. They storm into town firing into the air, bullets rattling like loose change. They pick off children in the distance with little puffs of pink and then the crumpling. And they laugh. The laughing is the worst of it, an up close and personal nuclear bomb of a laugh. Old women spill bread and fruit into the street. It's a fucking mess.
I've got no time for this. I've got no time for anything, man. But talking to you about this recurring dream is an easy way to avoid my real problems: a book I can't seem to finish, stories I can't seem to finish. The difference between a writer and a Holly Hobby dress-up doll bullshit artist? They finish. And I can't seem to finish. |
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