August 30th, 2013


"I can't see you. But I can guess." (6 Vicodin)

The irony is that I'm a steaming cesspool of insecurities and self loathing. This should, of course, be obvious.

There will never be a low point, because things can always get worse, and we can never see the light at the end of the tunnel, but seeing people write that they are "noming" and "om nom noming" does almost suggest a Horizon of Absolutely Stupidity.

Yesterday, I wrote 607 words and finished "Black Ships Seen South of Heaven." It comes to 6,482 words. It joins "Ballad of an Echo Whisperer" and "Elegy for a Suicide" on the summer's very short list of accomplishments. I suppose I should also count the prologue of Cherry Bomb, "Four Monsters Walk Into A Bar." Three of those things were written in August.

Today, in theory, I'm going to deal with suggested edits on Pink Delicious. All of them in one day. In theory.

Little solace comes
to those who grieve
when thoughts keep drifting
as walls keep shifting
and this great blue world of ours
seems a house of leaves
moments before the wind.

When writing a review or a "review" of a book by an author who is not a personal acquaintance of yours, do not refer to them by their first name. This sort of shit should be obvious, right?

And Seamus Heaney has died.

There is risk and truth to yourselves and the world before you.

The Voices That Are Carrying This Tune,
Aunt Beast