reading also, in short unfocused moments, but mostly writing. stumbling after the siren calls of all those notebooks and pens. my library books are being neglected. instead of automatically turning to plastic-sleeved hardcover spines and neatly printed pages, I am losing myself in a spiral-bound and blue-lined scribble-filled wilderness.
and?
mostly it's the black one. Starcustard. chapter ten has finally crawled out of its draft stage. you can read it over here. someday I may get my own little website up and breathing again, and you might be able to read it there too. someday.
these stories. they take up mere fractions of my mind, and yet seem so full. whole universes. entire communities. other consciousnesses. they all crawl around in their little compartments, kicking and pulling and stretching. what can we do? what can we do but give them a bit of two-dimensional freedom? some kind of on-paper existence. it isn't much. it might not be real. but hey, what else can we do?
after all, that sheet of paper or that screen may look flat, but it isn't. it's just the top layer, the one your eyes first meet. beyond the ink or pixels and light there could be anything. whole universes.
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