A Stiction Fiction

“You fill me with stiction.”

“Friction?”

“No. Stiction.

“Shouldn’t it be inertia?”

“No, stiction, damn it!”

“Sorry, I don’t know what that is.”

He was filled with a horror and a hate so acute at that instant that his fist automatically clenched and his arm seemed to move autonomously driving that clenched fist to an inexorable meeting with his brother’s face…

The author’s stream of thought is broken here, and a lyric, and then a deconstructed thought impinges:

Anger is an energy. The certainty of reason is a tyranny.

Speak in aphorisms. Think in signifiers. Be the signified.

And so the author continued on another string. The nascent narrative broken…

“You fill me with inertia.”
“There, that’s more like it.”
“Like what?”
“Like what I like.”

And then unable to completely gather their wits the author’s work and discipline was irretrievably disrupted, and they were done for the day.

“We live, as we dream — alone.”
— Joseph Conrad