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22 September 2014 @ 05:22 pm
dead letter office  
it's old. it's worn. it's going nowhere, fast.

and yet.

it's writing and writing and writing. everywhere i can find, everything i see fit to put down: which, on balance, may be several hundred pages of absolutely nothing.

but at least it's something.

i write it. maybe later i type it. i type it into m.s. word, software programmed for enthusiastic auto-correction of my assorted stylistic vices; software refined into increasing difficulty around manually changing things back to the way i want them to be. don't you see? i want to do it wrong. i want my writing to look immature, solipsistic, lost to itself and others because that's what it is. that's what it's always been. that's who i've always been. it's one of the failures from which i draw power. i understand that there are check boxes i could untick - around capital letters at least - but it's probably for the best that i don't, as the whole matter of professional presentation remains a deep pool reeking of human weakness for me. i am not like some of you, you authorities in the court of reasonable grammar; those of you who observe and actively speak concerns about passive voice, flubbed punctuation, whom or who or you or me or i or i or if

always if

i before e except in any instance where i am using a word that puts one right next to the other

i trail ink into the void. i whisper into the void. always whispering into the void.

always whispering into the void.

always whispering into the void.

maybe, someday, my words will echo back upon the ears of someone meant to hear them.

maybe not.
mood: wouldn't you like to know.
music: great wolf of no tracks - boduf songs
growsgrows on September 23rd, 2014 02:25 am (UTC)
selva oscura: [rollins] iron roseanonymousblack on September 23rd, 2014 04:43 pm (UTC)
(thank you)