Why don’t I write anymore?
Has the muse fled?
Have I simply given up?
Things have focused on being prosaic so much lately that looking at a blank page, the words do not come anymore.
A lot of the old buildings, broken down and reshaped into big tall gray boxes of rats. I’m a rat too!
Running around and around on a treadmill, boundedby the sun rising from the Sitting Room and Going down over the Sea , which is a big unseen gutter, gray with the sludge of a million people.
Time that finite resource, that unconquerable Conqueror. Things i took for constancy once upon a time, come loose like the cellotape pasted over the rents in the mosquito netting.
If i was self-censoring before, nowadays I clamp down on everything with the fervent insane zeal of a George Orwellian 1984 Censor.
Why am i so afraid?Things do not seem easy, they never have,but there are Things out there (like Lovecraft said) unconquerable, huge, implacable and caring not a whit about whether we pitiful bugs live, die or cease to exist as if we have never been!