A note to the casual reader:

Editing can be defined as only seconds of, “why”…

Not that word you asshole, and you didn’t really have to do this to yourself. Think about it, You could have done anything and I just want to break something right now as I shake my head and feel nothing but disgust for how humans treat one another as the alphabetical imprint on these petty authoritative little boxes called buttons keep slowly fading as the days go by because of the force that you push your fingers down with to only create, what?

I don’t even know what I’m doing right now. Damnit…

What a long work night. Words, the book, just everything is moving slow. Too many smokes inhaled, and remember that I’m talking like this for literary reasons, because I’m the main character of this story, who just so happens to be a writer, and if you don’t understand what I’m trying to explain with these words all you have to do is replace what I do with anything that you do, such as work in an office or the military, or maybe you’re a nurse or a truck driver, maybe you’re even in prison or one day will be in prison. I don’t know, just replace writer with your so called profession and substitute those sounds that nauseate me with whatever pisses you off.

Now you get it. I’m not talking to somebody else right now. I’m only talking to myself, trying to make myself laugh, and yeah, I laugh for a good ten minutes, and about what? What am I laughing about? My trivial and constantly absurd existence, it’s hilarious.

          Writing and typing and waiting….trying to laugh, no longer tapping, but still, the moments pass by, the laughter is gone, and back to the fear….

They make so much noise.

Tap-tap…tick…creek…

Fuck and damnit, and I messed up because my fingers and mind get so lazy around this time every week. Wait, and another error and so many pauses and backspaces and now, erase, now hate, and no, just twist off the anger and wash away, to form, the universal sound of laughter.

And they make so much noise. The night, for me, for writers like myself, for men like me, well it seems to always be the damn night, alone, backspace and why, not questions, just editing marks of a possible muse that never has or will exist, and it’s as if I’m dreaming while awake, losing track of everything while reading my words or your words only more fucking words that sometimes begin to make absolutely no sense at all as the days age this thing that’s only called, my life.

 My friends, never mind; existential chatter is all this really is, and get over it brother because you have to work, the words aren’t going anywhere. The writer is you and you have to do what you have to do, and why, I can’t really answer that, it’s never really been a question, only seconds…

With each word you read over you’ll notice that this might be a dream, some kind of nightmare, because the keys are erasing letters and numbers; it’s like they never even existed in the first place. You can erase all of this, all these hours and days and lost…nothing.

What the hell is this, and what is a computer? I know what they are, buy why are they? Dumb questions, I know.

And the screen is bright and books, three books, a few diversions are placed on the table in plain sight, and you can even touch them if you want to, and they’re on the table maybe only for inspiration, but more so for relaxation, like a smoke to smoke these words away when you need a break from the madness, from the paralysis of sleep, for an escape from the life that becomes more surreal each and every damn…

That’s it. I’m going for a walk.

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