What a monologue praying used to be, a beseeching self-castigation, throwing promises into the dark! That was the beginning, one likes to admit, of writing. Yet it was stopped before any descriptions of the apocalypse could be made in my own style.
"'Control yourself,' she intoned." Hasn't that been the injunction when you are too aware of what you're about? Such a controlled stance is indeed awkward! Finally, you must learn that you need your books. Contemplate selling them in the front yard, a dollar each, the fabled renouncement that should be just as redemptive of learning as imagining one's death ends up redeeming life. Imagine the suffering after the loss of your books/life!
At least now I've a different role to play--forget that it's not any better. Focus on its difference from the previous one. No need to be specific: the focusing is to be conducted in private.
Shouldn't I find a place between symbolic and realistic? I see you standing there, ready to tell me the boundary is never fixed. I say, your platitudinous post-: what exactly does it follow?
You could learn to write with chalk. You could ask the audience, are my eyes closing because I'm tired or because I've a headache? To which they would be obliged to respond somehow, it being a "random" question: make the impression of randomness. Seek out the drollery in every moment, the flat humor that once gave others the impression that you possessed an intellect. This could help launch a career!
No exclamations, please.
Anyway, I thought you had a new style for me to watch develop. It's finally late enough to go to sleep since you've discovered you are not a writer yet. Been playing games, eh?
Yes well, my alter-ego gave this [death-scene snow globe] to me, 27th birthday. Said, grad school's over the moment you know you're going dry.
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