After last night's blogging madness, I should probably just rest my fingers tonight and sit in silent contemplation, preparing some magnum opus to someday release on the blogging world.
But I don't want to.
I feel like writing tonight. Not sure what about. How honest do I want to be? And those are wasted sentences--not a single image or concrete thought to hold onto.
concrete = solid
abstract = withdrawn
I should play with those, write a poem. A prose poem, which we don't call prose poems because that is relegating them into a category that doesn't fit.
Fit fit fit. I repeat words a lot. I say this to warn the Fob pantheon of what is coming on Thursday night. Something entirely different. Don't know what's come over me. Actually, I do. Know what's come over me. Damn creative writing theory class. Can't write anything that doesn't sound false anymore. It's all about sound. On the page it looks dreadful. But every sound fits together. Fits. Fits together.
Tonight I got the best hug of my life. It was a terrible dream.
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