There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
-E. Hemingway

So many truths, so little time. With every one of them: an expiry date, kept out of view.

We try to keep things clean but life has a way of getting dirty. This mess in our heads is but a reflection of the mess in our hearts, no more, no less. You come to me with your names and your titles and all my little fingers tremble with anticipation. All you get is silence. Why? So you can hear the ticking of the clock.

Time will prove everything.

Some readers read to peek a truth or two. Some readers read to find themselves outlined, in chalk or in rainbows. A reader can read everything written and gain not one once of fresh clear certainty.

I could sit here and bleed out another story wrapped around a kingdom wrapped around relationships wrapped around a beehive wrapped around a bee wrapped around a ghost wrapped around you. Without a doubt you would know... I wrote it for you.

Never will such a thing happen. The truth of you can only be crushed to fine dust, to be found by a clean cloth.

Labels: alarming truthness, notice the sign