Tossed and turned all night, anxious. About what? Don’t know.

My anxieties never play out with real world consequence. Perhaps I sense the impending collision of fate — a proximity alert for destiny. Perhaps, every time, the crash is narrowly avoided, a troubled night’s sleep left like skid marks on the road.

A gulf exists between creation and production. The urge to create has no link to the urge to produce. Just because I scribble something down, satisfied with its birth, doesn’t mean I’ll ever take the time to share it with anyone.

And the urge to produce, need not rely on one’s own urges to create. Publishers are driven to produce the creations of others with no regard for themselves.

Love, the ecstasy that slips through the sieve of a thousand tragedies, the inviolable allure of someone else’s personal gravity.

they say that time changes things, but it doesn’t. things change, but that has nothing to do with time. time is a series of inconsolable, incontrovertible events that can never be changed, never be lessened. time is that series of concrete weariness, the art that we make.

serret’s always said never settle for anything less than extraordinary, and you shouldn’t. it is, after all, your art.

in alabama, we watched a redneck with a trucker cap and kicker boots walk into a convenience store wearing a confederate flag as a cape.