God damn but you write a lot of drivel.
Sad, solipsistic and cynical in a manner that amuses less than it irks.
You write it on scraps of paper, treasuring a few crumpled lines from one pocket or another, clinging to and crushing them for years only to discover that time’s passage has rendered them illegible or senseless.
You send emails to yourself with phrases like ‘brittle star’ and ‘shark tart’ without any further context or development, patting yourself on the back for the effort and feeling like a writer for a few precious savored seconds.
Reading this stuff is like being imprisoned in your brain, that burning shit bin of an existence you impose upon yourself, you created, you designed, you labored and worked and sweated for years and years only to discover that the towering fortress, the citadel you put together brick by brick from the inside-out, had not a single door.
Nonsense non-rhymes without rhythm or timing, free thoughts unfettered from relevance or meaning, dense paragraphs of textual jungle into which some may venture occasionally only to become lost, suffocated, and eventually die from sheer boredom.
You are fragmented, in pieces all spinning and scattered, and I have neither the time nor the patience to grapple with this puzzle, this shuttle-wreck, this demon dog’s breakfast of a bastard blog today.