Still Arising

Thinking without writing is like fucking air — there's not enough pressure to make it count. It's not that I don't exist, it's that the day goes by and doesn't leave a mark. Not that it matters. The world is already scribbled over. A notch? An explanation or excuse? No one has to read it. I need to write, not edifices like Roth, I'm not a novelist, but honor passing time by registering its strange effect. Age is whatever you happen to be now. Less energy still arises.