I just opened a heap of windows and the house is so cold that I can barely breathe. Literally: the temperature is having an effect on my lungs’ ability to do whatever they do with oxygen to keep me alive and in existence. What is the most logical next step? Close the windows, of course. And put on a comfortable and reasonable winter outfit before concentrating on one thing to do, with direction and intensity and performance. I still lack an imaginative vocabulary. Stephen King claims that it increases with increased writing and increased reading. I do neither. Perhaps that explains the unimagination. I’m just… Wow, a tidal wave of blank smashed across the horizon and there was a heavenly lack of everything for that brief moment when you can hear the cat’s collar jingle under your window and you still have the room light on, despite liking it but simultaneously disliking it for its lack of intimacy, its dull sky orange a refuge from reality.
I will take one step closer to the other side in a moment, after I give you the necessary attention and disgrace. Huh? Oh, “Why?” you ask. Because Freudian defense mechanisms rule all. It is a scientific fact, plain and simple. A relief really.
