... and scene!
its fucking official now. if i dont write ill fall to pieces. every square inch of me will seperate
of its own accord and fall to the ground with a flop. if there is one thing i know how to do
so help me god its write. i was born for the sole purpose of scribbling on paper and typing feverishly
untill my finger tips are raw and red, my mouth is dry and my stomach is growling. drink smoke write.
three things at which i particularly excel. forever and ever and ever amen. who the fuck is afraid
of virginia wolfe now? not i, not i, not i. who craves writing? who craves the rhythm of the
keys? who does all he does for the sole purpose of adding more garble to his brain in order to be
fleshed out into story and prose? let my body waste to nothing. let my flesh be pulp, my limbs
disentigrate. i need liturature. i need to make it and i need to consume it. it is the fire of my
life. i have nothing else. profundity is all thats left to me now. ill get my phd's in economics and
physics. ill keep a dog, run the lake, work on motorcycles and cry
and drink. why? none of them will make me vomit while i pass the time untill i write again. give me
a fucking keyboard and a whiskey sour. give me a notebook and a gin and tonic. give me a good premise
or give me death. if it wasnt for writing id end this right now. give me 3 nights with an honest friend
2 litres of whiskey a chess board and a pool table. thats all i need. ill write for 3 weeks straight
after that. ill tear to shreds ever last puppy dog, sour sap, five year old bit of incoherent dribble
with nothing but my mind and my notes. the pen is mighter than the sword, and my keyboard is more
powerfull than any god-forsaken h-bomb on the planet. some my fear virginia wolfe, all who trifle
will learn to fear me. ill breathe fire.
listen: vonnegut and bukowski are my saints. john updike is my comrade. camus was a prophet. and
i am the bastard son of god. beware all who take pleasure in sitting idle, i have formed and i do not
forget.
its fucking official now. if i dont write ill fall to pieces. every square inch of me will seperate
of its own accord and fall to the ground with a flop. if there is one thing i know how to do
so help me god its write. i was born for the sole purpose of scribbling on paper and typing feverishly
untill my finger tips are raw and red, my mouth is dry and my stomach is growling. drink smoke write.
three things at which i particularly excel. forever and ever and ever amen. who the fuck is afraid
of virginia wolfe now? not i, not i, not i. who craves writing? who craves the rhythm of the
keys? who does all he does for the sole purpose of adding more garble to his brain in order to be
fleshed out into story and prose? let my body waste to nothing. let my flesh be pulp, my limbs
disentigrate. i need liturature. i need to make it and i need to consume it. it is the fire of my
life. i have nothing else. profundity is all thats left to me now. ill get my phd's in economics and
physics. ill keep a dog, run the lake, work on motorcycles and cry
and drink. why? none of them will make me vomit while i pass the time untill i write again. give me
a fucking keyboard and a whiskey sour. give me a notebook and a gin and tonic. give me a good premise
or give me death. if it wasnt for writing id end this right now. give me 3 nights with an honest friend
2 litres of whiskey a chess board and a pool table. thats all i need. ill write for 3 weeks straight
after that. ill tear to shreds ever last puppy dog, sour sap, five year old bit of incoherent dribble
with nothing but my mind and my notes. the pen is mighter than the sword, and my keyboard is more
powerfull than any god-forsaken h-bomb on the planet. some my fear virginia wolfe, all who trifle
will learn to fear me. ill breathe fire.
listen: vonnegut and bukowski are my saints. john updike is my comrade. camus was a prophet. and
i am the bastard son of god. beware all who take pleasure in sitting idle, i have formed and i do not
forget.