The line is busy. That’s a good excuse. My thoughts can’t tackle the collected consonants, nor the vowels vegged at each corner of a fragment. My mind has shrunk each line – nothing is strong, nothing is saying anything. I approach the paper like I approach my enemies: from afar. Too bad these lines can’t talk back: “Scratch me! Pull me! You lousy artist.” I just stretch back into the spine of my chair and drop my hands. Sometimes I think I’d be better off with puppet strings for bones. I’ll allow someone, who doesn’t care, to carry my conscience. The less I care, the more my characters speak.
