Sitting within this tomb which I wish to have one day. The walls around me made with books. Tightly pressed against each other, cover to cover. But the book I'd like to absorb, slides out effortlessly with so much ease I need not flex a single muscle.
This is so raw.
It's 5:53pm. I'm sitting in this library wondering what I'll write about for my next piece. Finding the ingredients isn't the hard part. Putting them together so they become something, anything worth while, takes time, talent, patience, which I don't have. I fear writer's block. I fear I may one day experience sixty years of it as Henry Roth did. But I won't come out of the sickness and spew out four volumes of work and die famous. I hope I can get something out, anything, and I'll take whatever they want to give me for it.
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