Here I stand, Sad and Free...

It's raining again in Houston. The overcast sky reflects me. Or I reflect it. But I think I'm cloudier.

The pinch is on, I'm on the rack. The ultimatum has been delivered, but i'm trying to let it roll off my back. I'm getting the sneaking idea that I'm being hunted by time.

Yesterday I started crying for no reason.

Wrote the beginning of a short story yesterday. I'll finish it tonight. Unfortunately, writing is cheaper than therapy, and the phrase "write what you know" is taking on a newer, more personal meaning. My fear is that by the time i'm done, I'll have a bookfull of stories i'll never be able to publish, and if I do, i'll blush every time i pass a copy on a shelf.

My novel is impatiently waiting to be born. I think it will take a Caesarian circumstance to finally cut the damned thing out of me.

How different is birth from disembowelment, I wonder? ...a matter of perspective?

(Note to Ophelia: I'm glad you're doing so well. I'm trying to be glad, at any rate. I hope you understand what I mean.)

Song of the day: "How to Disappear Completely (without even trying)" by Radiohead

Song of the Week: "Evaporated" by Ben Folds Five


"...i poured my heart out, i poured my heart out, it evaporated, see?..."