the piece

incredible clarity in the day’s temperament today. last night i exorcised anger whilst walking across carparks. i don’t remember walking across any carparks, but it fits.

woke up to one of those seamless visions of a novel: the relevance of the form’s necessity needs questioning, but it appears to strengthen only further within the confines of thought, the spinning concierge.

hung the ideas upon the inside of my eyelids as i drifted back to sleep. woke, and wrote. courted the idea of eating, and ate. portrayed all of this as actual and in no way harmful.

could see the structure of the piece (the novel) in graphs. tore out strips of paper from old jotter and laid them across one another, alongside one another, building a mountain range upon the flat table top.

this is the piece, i thought, the novel, i said.

i drew in rocks and crevices upon the mountains and foothills of paper.

this is the only way. take the lead of the verb and cement a foundation upon discourse and reason. accept and reject the ideas simultaneously through a redefinition of the core concepts. stories will come too easily. ignore them until there appear to be no more. then write, anonymously and without reference to place.

my time is without, it deals in the unsaid.


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