Body hurts and girl in bed, dog in bed…I sit here to type some words on new typewriter, only destiny, only my life, and how does a man become honest with himself? These are only words and the sound of the machine has not yet been defined. What do I have to say? I don’t know. What do I mean? I don’t know. What does any of this mean? I don’t know. What is anything? What is the Universe? I don’t know. What are these questions and what is writing? What is man-woman-what is this head of hamlet full of words of gross injection that I search with? I don’t know. I know-know-I know all of the answers and there are none, no answers. There is only one answer, and that there is none, zip. Still I search. Why? We seek and what do we writers seek for? Why write if you do not seek? Why isolation if you are not trying to find something? WHY WHY WHY?- and why?- is anger the same as sexual desire walking fearfully on a bridge, fucking in the sheets and is that vulgar, is that not human-hum-human and dignity and humming my loathing and self-typing servitude of now millions of gross words and fingers and the lick of the finger the lick of the lips the lick of the smile the lick of the mouth touching fingers and wires and days have now past. We will die. Super id got stimulated on a Freudian slip, no longer karma stars of the diamond in the sky. I’m now just nothing of sorts but out of sorts and manipulated, a vagabond of the night, the sleeping path is the search and the writer searches, for why write if you’re not searching? Why waste money on learning how to write if you just want to be a writer? Do you? You are. You are just part of pop culture, and get out of my way, never mind the era that you were born into, this junky word smith of a culture. You are no writer. Not me. You. You are the critical mass, the New Yorker, the time book reviewer, the social media blood hound. You’re not the writer. You’re the monetary investment, a mortgage broker, a spy built unknowingly on the sabotage of your own damn art; you’re just the ghost in the night where ash trays filter the bloody finger cuts of the real writers, my finger, and the nail and split open flesh of what is no longer even real, the interior of the robot, and this is where you are, and I see it all, the nothingness of my profession. You are no writer. You are not angry. You are society. Why-why, why do this if it’s no longer fun? Only one reason. You are the last writer alive. Just life. You are a ghost. You too will die. Now…SMILE, and LOVE THE WEEK, the sun, and LOVE your fucking LIFE.