justwrite 11 november

Deliciously comfortable is how Jason feels when he wakes up. He’s still on the couch—which you probably saw coming—and it’s already ten o’clock. Shock! He didn’t plug in his alarm again once the headache storm passed in its drastic path through his temples in its worship of unpleasantness. It’s fine, though, just fine, and lining the tablet now lying on the floor is a store of letters fresh bought or possibly caught in his late night flight of fancy—the dancing of mind designs within awkwardly defined lines. It’s easy to see where he started to fall asleep, when to keep within margins was too narrow for the sparrows of his thoughts, caught on a breeze of what? And why? was he trying to write something now? And how reasonable could such ramblings be in the clean light of day? Jason stretches into the morning and considers whether to get up or to stay down or to read and explore or to ignore the chicken scratch that managed to catch on the pages…

The headache is totally gone, it seems—possibly spread thickly in some sickly awkward phrasing, chasing pretentious dimensions into the literary field.

Q: If you work in a library, do you automatically want to write books?

Q/A: If you take an airplane flight to somewhere [also, presumably, from somewhere], do you automatically want to become a pilot?

A/A: No.