Midnight broke just minutes ago. I am sitting at this keyboard once again, fiddling with these wounded words. Electric light, electric music, a vague, all-consuming ache upon me: what isn't to love? This ponderous diversion, these stray sentences stuck together for no earthly purpose, the sting of scrape and puncture freshly treated-- should it matter that so much doesn't? If it was about what mattered, to the world or to me, this impulsive indulgence wouldn't exist. Instead, it is the clockwork mystery of the promises we keep in our heads and empty gestures to a made-up mission. As if, as a path to composing a new piece of music, I decided to go to an open mic night and play scales. Like warming up for a game of Russian roulette by pointing my fore-finger at my head and saying "Bang!"
I grow tired of these untuned dilutions, the grind of too much telling for someone who never has anything to say. Instead, there are exercises in expansion and contraction. Set pieces and hints and whispers. When in doubt, watch a bird, watch the stars. Watch the sun rise or set. Write a love letter or an apology. Warm up. Start talking. Waste your breath and everyone's time. That ought to be good for something.