My genre involves the tangential. I embrace it now. Writers get too consumed by the end product and lose handle on the reality that be, the Now, the process. If these bite-sized contributions to the log are just that, reactionary beats, then I have sipped ascendancy. Ultimate appreciation of the Now, my genre. The Now, my genre. Me, my genre. What’s more applaudable, a novel every three years, or a stream of scribbles, in a terrain of multitudinous themes? I truly don’t know, I’m posing such to you, reader. Either way, if there be a fence, or block, I’m not with it concerned, consumed.
Came to this suit in the Room yesterday, just before colliding with a club member. Won’t let that tear this triumphant tangent. Cubism, a swarm of gems to the line, lines. What do I do with mine? Time for the Room. Not that interested in my shift. Not one spec of enthusiasm gallops in my circuitry. Closing the laptop. Where are my keys? More interest in the sitting.