I just planted a book down in disgust. Whatever feeling that predates want of learning has well disappeared and perhaps reappeared somewhere else outside the purview. Whatever want that exists now feels entirely in the realm of creation.
I feel the push not towards writing, but towards something inherently other. The 2nd book (I feel uncomfortable calling it a novel) is (this verb, I loathe) going to be, become that which it needs to become.
The 1st novel (book) exists as a collection of fragments representing a mosaic of time. There’s a chaos, but it’s ordered. I understand there may reside questions within the article “a.” Those answers will unveil themselves themselves within the later exposition… The 1st project became what it needed to be within a very fixed time; it was a project of time regulated by time (a hard due date) and institution (the university). This 2nd book resides outside any hard time or hard institution. There are no guidelines (not that there were any before). The 1st book spliced Time and Experience; the 2nd will do more by incorporating the splicing of genres (fiction, non-fiction, Tweets, status updates, e-mails, text messages, dreams, silence, space, time, language, non-verbal cues, insinuations, implications, fallacies, airtight logic, logical errors, illogical errors, purposeful errors, intentional errors, errorless errors, working errors, inert errors, mistakes as errors, errors as mistakes, errors as errors of impudent discretion and pedigree, and moving forward with the shifting foundation breaking, forming, breaking, reforming, breaking again and again and again and softer, harder, hardly softly, and more, until, then, you, I, become ourselves under the sheer pressure of Time writing that which breathes in the thin air of this nothingness which feels and lives in its infinite reaching, breaking, writhing attempt to escape the idleness and aloneness that had preceded the present case that is).