i am in maine sans a scanner. but i shall put my camera to good use on rocks that have posed for photographs in vain for 10,000 years.
and i shall write you poems about those rocks.
and maybe one or two about failure.
i am lonely.
last year i wrote a poem about my loneliness. and this year i read books about its nature. vonnegut inspires temper-tantrums about my writing. about everything i may never become. everything i am not. everything i am araid of (never becoming). good books remind me: "you know nothing about life." they say it over and over again in neat little rows on their pages. there's this story i want to write so bad and i don't know how to begin. i don't know how to become a 45 year old man. i don't even know how to express his loneliness. because when you are lonely, it is so hard to remember that somewhere a 45 year old man is lonely too. because if you remember that, all you've got is a story worth telling. i guess. all i've got is an endless supply of empty pages and an unshakable feeling of failure.

Labels: By Ana

i beseech you, (god) give me a story.

Labels: By Ana