Sunday

One for the money. Two for the show. Three while it's sunny. Four in the snow.

I'm doing good. Been smoking weed the last three days, as not per my quitting of the vile substance. Very little has been gained from this renaissance: a sniffle and need for sleep. My eyes itch from the cat hair on the bed but I can't be fucked to clean it right now. It would involve going next door to get the vacuum cleaner and I don't want to talk to Jared. The blonde one maybe. She's hot. Elle.

Writing without flair. Without too much precognition or adornment. Writing seems different to the other arts in that is always definitive. Words have meaning. They point to something. There's no hiding behind abstraction.

I fucked xxxx. I came inside her and had to send a text the next day so that she was aware. I could feel my sperms out there causing trouble. Little rascal versions of me wreaking havoc in innocent fallopian tubes. She took it well.

All this learning to write business is unsettling for my style. I have always had my own but now there's real talent to compare to. Pressure to compete, to be something special. I have to keep in mind that it's me that makes cool, and that writing to please others goes against my ideals. I write what I like. If others like it too that is bonus.

It's a matter of not trying. Of not seeing the world in goods and bads. Of stepping back and watching the creature you thought was you work without your input. It's better off without you. The superficial thought we identify and control barely skims the deep lake of unconscious. When we see value we are arrested by a rift between instinct and control. Between desire and consequence. Challenge yourself and the world, but see it for what it is: a story you created.