The Apotheosis of the Crab

What if what I wanted to write what didn’t need to be written?

What is this strange atmosphere that has settled over me?

One of my holy ghosts has scrammed for a patch of stratocumulus, and I feel a tenth of a degree colder.

I’ve patched my pants and holes appear on my socks. I darn my socks and my amygdala grates itself and hides in the parmesan container in the cheese drawer. The cheese drawer wishes to paint vibrant watercolors depicting scenes from Alice In Wonderland, as Salvador Dalí did—it claims to have always aspired to high surrealism, and to have read André Breton’s oeuvre. Breton’s ghost invites one of my holy ghosts over to his cloud perch, and the ouroboros renews itself.

And I’ve yet to write what didn’t need to be read. 

And a strange atmosphere is just descending.

And one of my holy ghosts remains still.

And I’m still warm.

What I’m Reading:

ORDINARILY, I DON’T THINK OF A PARTICULAR audience when I write. Posterity, perhaps. But not the reader or a reader or any real-world friend, no matter how close. 

— Elizabeth McCracken / A Long Game: Notes on Writing Fiction