Books and books of sprouted thoughts, screenplay starts, sketches turned paintings . . .
Does anyone think it’s real?
Certainly not me.
I can smell the pages burning.
Letters to a far off wizard.
Someone who knows me better than the self.
Someone under the dying.
And the dying is a recreation for some.
As murder could be sport for the impatient gods.
They’re bored with the fearful plots I concoct.
The waiting in shadows while web forms need to be filled out.
The joke of un-adventure.
The waiting for perfection as perfection flies by.
The clutching of money.
The tearing away of aging flesh.
One lazy layer at a time.
None to touch it.
