To prepare yourself to write: what a joke. To make a cup of tea, pull up the chair and wait for… what? The pricking in the bladder, the pangs of hunger… To want to write: what a joke. You’re already writing: waiting in the non-writing that is itself writing, that’s writing inscribing its absence within you and yours within it… But to wait as though you’ll never physically scribble a word again, because that’s how it seems, that’s different, almost disgraceful, as if the whole botched enterprise was a childish game to begin with… To sniff and walk off as if it’s the last thing you needed anyway, to tell yourself you know it’s nothing anyway, made of nothing, nothing to its non-existent core. To swear you’ll never scribble again as you look for ways to make yourself useful, to earn money… Then to sink into yourself in a free moment… and when you’ve written, when writing’s hand has gripped yours for a moment? Still in lieu of writing, still waiting, writing makes sure of that…


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