Wednesday, July 30, 2014


"My mission is to kill time, and time's to kill me in its turn. How comfortable one is among murderers."

When writer's block gets bad enough that the only thing you can think to write about is how your writer's block feels[

:a punishing regime of self abuse:

It started as a high-pitched but barely audible whine, like that sound an old tv tuned to nothing makes] started and never left] after a while even the memory of the starting fades and you kind of accept it as part of your perception] a dulling of it] sit day after day staring out a window at a terrible, uneventful, mundane view, lacking even the energy to simply change the view] makes my hands [n[u[m[b[ and I drift off in the middle off typing this to look out [5 hours pass here, and I] can't even finish a sentence without a chorus of exasperated sighs
no movement no sense of humour

a migraine drills into my temples////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

:: lay waste my heart with monotones of boredom ::

Overwrought pressures compound the burden of knowing nothing. 
All the bodies have been removed, but it will never be clean here.
maybe, a psychic wreckage] maybe maybe maybe unmeasurable quantum excitations]
i am sure it was there.
this is where i left it]
frustration squalls and squeals like a field of blackboard-nails

[sometimes, when sufficiently panicked, my spine instinctively tries to flex in a distinctly inhuman fashion] reminds me of the contortions of a fish dropped on the ground] 

shaken by ultimate unknowns, your information is valueless

(pouring gasoline on ice-cold week-old dead-ash] the smell makes me nauseous and drives me from the room] the interrogation is over, the experiment is over] drilling recedes to a muscular ache in the back of my neck]  

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