I recently put up a Facebook page for my own musical experiments. There you can find links to every album and some little words to go with every album. I think it may be a waste of time and online space, but anyhow. I also had some cassettes yesterday, but I doubt no one is going to actually buy them. My Christmas is going swimmingly, sitting alone and writing shitloads of stuff. I have at least a chapter of poetry done already, in an hour or so. Inspiration is a strange thing. I spent the last three nights sitting in front of my computer, all ready to write, but could not focus to do anything. Now I've got focus. One rejection is enough to shoot me off to outer spaces of my inner self, and with some aid from Vincent Gallo and Swans, I've rocketed myself so far off even Vonnegut couldn't write me back to earth.
I'm not sure why I started writing this. Probably only because I feel so fucking electric. I can't stop. And I won't stop. There's no way I could stop as long as I breathe. I need to do this. All of this. All the time. Or I'll fucking explode. And I don't want that. So there is no choice, there are no options, just this. And I need to carry on typing for as long as I am, and therefore pour my existence into words, to fully understand, that I exist only because I reflect on my existence through this. And there's nothing more to it. Mere existence, observing itself.
I think I'll go write something else. Thank you for reading.