it took a long time before i realized coffee. i don't know how up until now i wrote a fucking thing. my syntax before it comes out like gradeschool papers. afterwords i can just flow. i have enough trouble waking up in the morning, bringing my head out of itself, that i don't know how i didn't discover this sooner.
i always imagine how they found william burroughs, in the midst of writing naked lunch: locked in a hotel room in (i think) tangiers, sitting in a corner with the manuscript in a mess all around him, and the floor mucked ankle-high with wrappers vomit shit etc because he hadn't been paying attention to anything else. i need to do that. i need to sequester myself somewhere. i do to some extent but not enough. there are too many outside impulses. i like the access of the internet. i like certain evening hours of outside occurence, ie: girlfriend. but the days i work, i'd like to work in a box with coffee and no bed and the internet. taking a lot of little breaks is important to me, but being irritated by the endless buzzing of the phone is not a break.
the phone the phone the phone. if you want me to answer everytime you call, motherfuckers, pay my bill. otherwise it's mine and it will be silent and i will try to forget you exist.