Woke up this morning with my tongue around my head.
Someone had been writing on my arm meat:
The sun came out and killed the South. Killed the south with where. What son. What I am, son said. Sun one. Killed the which, I is.
There are a lot of things you could have done with a substance on which music has been embedded.
Lots of small starts and no beginnings.
I finally found my Mickey Mouse shirt with the paint flecks all over it from where I painted over a tall wall. Doesn't feel like it used to feel to wear it.
Today someone from Texas googled 'personal relate to the copy family by blake butler,' if you write an essay on this and mail it to me I will send you a copy of my head and face through this machine. or.
Famously Jean Genet was writing Our Lady of the Flowers in prison and had the pages taken from him, and then rewrote it in his head? Or I am getting the story wrong. Or it was never in his head and never on the paper. It was never in the book.
There is not a book.
In grad school I almost wrote my graduate lecture on the necessity of dreams in fiction, against the old tirade that dreams do not belong in fiction, instead I
I don't know what I believe anymore.
I need to get up earlier and go on more walks & in more sound.