Log 22-12-09

The plates build up and dirt lines the edges of the room, take-away cartons and cold cups, open books and disbound pages like fallen leaves; hours are spent alone at my desk, writing things no one will read. I take a scalpal to all my children, still living. I lay them aside, bleeding, and try to ignore their cries. This log fails to capture the process. My notebook festers, my commonplace book starves, my mind ferments. I shower, and an hour later I have dirt under my finger nails. My hands are stained brown from old books. I must keep going....

I have finished my second assignment. I have won another battle, even as the war is waged within and without, a war that cannot be won. I must keep going....

I find myself in a strange land, a land where the walls are animated by stranger dreams, walls that bubble and whisper, casting shadows that slither and crawl. A white lady inspects my work while I sleep.

Like a man who cheated death, I feel the shortness of time, a trepidation exacerbated by the fire that burns within me, by that Burning Question. This, they say, is called Joy.

I am half-mad with magick and drunken musings. My fingers curl in the fire. My seat is a chasm, the walls glitter with minerals that roll from disembodied tongues. My head sparkles; my head is a cave. It echoes with wormsounds.

Tonight I am possessed by a detective and a devil. Both vie for the page. I must keep going....