i'm trying to write and nothing comes out. nothing but the sound of the sirens in the town where i sometimes live. and this. the memory of a stuck key and being. unstuck. i'm not always right. or wrong. i'm not at the top notch or perched to take out some competition. but i am well. i do well. laugh well. enough. and i love. in incredible amounts. i've spent my whole life being afraid of these moments. these intricate webs of time when i am
I realized yesterday that I start an awful lot of pieces of writing with the words, "I'm trying to write, but nothing comes out . . .."
when i took my time. thought about what it might be like to punch your face out. or kiss. whichever. it always comes back to noon. on the wet streets of london. waiting for you. that dull cup of coffee and the hours my back got used to hurting against the rail of the tourists. the time. the way you never turned up. at the end of my lines. only just ever. when i needed.