Every night you write upside down and inside out and sideways, you write on top, and in between, and in the middle, you write with a casual observer’s eye, and you write inside a fire, you write the story of your life that never was and the tiger on your shoulder licking your neck and waiting for the delicious bones of legends, you write old houses and the railroad tracks at the bottom of the town where everything eventually leaves for other worlds, you write the I and the me and the others, the characters who come to you with their arms open, you write the staggering drunk conscience of the human race and you write the limping ant in his disappearing tiny cosmos, you write the entrails of feasts, you write parallel sagas of translucent galaxies broken by the storm of your advancing curiosity, you write until the dawn, and then you take up your weapons and walk out into the street of androids who collaborate on the lower rungs of the Syndicate.
***
(Every night you write reprinted here with permission of the of the author.)
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