mourning in winter
It didn't happen. We are left with cheeto-jesus to grope America by the crotch.
But you know all this and I digress into winter mourning.
The editor sent back my book of stories, but I can't summon the energy to look at my email. Most days I don't see why I should give a fuck. It takes effort to get dressed, to wash my hair, and little remains to care about my book. Why bother? George said to me all that time ago that nobody reads and fewer care.
I ask you reader - do you care? Do you give a flying fuck or even a fuck on a train? Maybe a fuck in the back of a Buick like so many men try with me, not caring enough to rent me and a hotel room for the night.
All these days spent in my books and writing and stories for...I can't tell you the reason. I do not know. It's a compulsion, a drive emanating from my soul, much like the desire to see the blood of rapists paint the walls.
Oh, yes, there is that. The other part of me. Seething angry vengeance laughing at the agony of men tied to the bed. The thing I write *about* and maybe simply am. A killer or a writer? Many ask me the question and I haven't the first damn clue how to respond. I write and I have killed. Draw your own conclusions, reader.
And as for the man tied to the bed. The poet. He's been here for a while. Longer than any other man has been prisoner in my room. I ask you - what shall be his fate? More of that tomorrow.
Today I will work on my book. I think. Do you want to read my stories?