I haven't written recently. The fact has been brought to my attention by a small fellowship of dwindling readers. Why don't you write, they ask me. Because I've been too busying wronging. My desire to write is as weak and insubstantial as my molted libido. It lay on the floor beside me, lifeless and inert, gathering dust. I've been reading more lately, perhaps that is why; a collection of stories by Hemingway, a novel by Murakami, useless internet articles, the backs of shampoo bottles, filthy poetry and crude rhymes scrawled on the dirty walls of dive bar bathroom stalls.
Every sign suggests I'm uninspired. There's an unseen silence between the lines. The small space at the start of each sentence is a mendacious misrepresentation of time. Any suggestion of brevity is a bald-faced lie. Stilted stops and awkward starts, and I'm not sure why. Why does this rhyme?
I haven't written because I have nothing to say.
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