Writing

There are few things more derelict in the world than a writer realizing the entire labor is complete and utter crap. That this stupid jones has somehow strung together a semi-redundant story over now 109 double spaced typewriter pages which only seen has fit to repeat and repeat and repeat itself.

Oh for a fire, Prometheus, some wayward flame, some more poignant burn than this cigarette, something to torch it all! Would it be but better for the world never to have known them than for me to have to return to this shit; to this variable puddle of words shit onto a page that must be dealt with tomorrow.

And this isn't the most hefty of writing assignments. No dear coituser, this Friday, I'm cast as this Man of Honor in the play of my sister's wedding. Thus I find myself called upon to make a speech on marriage. This venerable institution that I find little evidence or want to believe in.

Speak. Speak from the God blessed heart. Let the heavens ring with the sounds of you solidifying all. Oh but the weight of the Morning Star is upon us all. That utterly romantic tale of being in love so much that you're blinded to love en totale.

How are we supposed to exemplify love? What is it? Love is only regret... on repeat.