I’m a coffee head, hustling all the time, awesome! But let’s pare it down.
Have we ever done anything but tamper with the weather? Oh, who knows? Oh, Ladytron. You seem so fake-excited in the sprayed periphery, staying in balance inside a soft radical vapor of anathemic bigness, loosely demolished.
You start along those lines dreaming in a wandered-in complex. You’ve been warned to stay inside.
You dream while awake and think it through for the audience that follows you into little squares of hypnotic drumming. In one direction the focus is lost. You grow accustomed, so to speak. Hey hey my my. You look around then you’re there and not there, of course, but you bring in a harmless grass snake to crawl up the exposed back of a dead friend you’re thinking about. There’s someone else moving forward along the shore’s torn distance in midges, vellums, tiny Gillette letters and smaller decimals. The sun is shining, nipping, filing matter, spinning, capturing the dress casual of your meaning it but not being tempted. You can exit the dream at any point or add features in a non-European language the second person, the “someone else,” understands. Or you can stay on and have the dream appear in English as an entire practice, one obsessive habit flattened into sponge-festering symmetry. Chills emerge when a third person, a total stranger, raises his corona showing up empty handed, invisible in the wind. You’re giving him head citations. And then you thought, that’s what’s wrong.
Concerning the Novel, Including My Own
Some thoughts on the novel, a form of writing that somehow perplexes me. I have written (what I call) novels but haven’t really thought of the effort as nove...