Tuesday, October 1, 1996. 11:28pm
I'm sitting here at home, and I can't think of a goddam thing to say. About anything. There must be some pearl of understanding slumming away in my gut. How do I purge myself of the nonsense that fills my days?At times like this I have to start making stuff up. Just get to the typewriter and keep typing like this until a sentient thought crystallizes. Look at the letters on the keys and fumble kings dry like rocket fingers. Prowl spastically under thunderously fluttering stinkweed turnips. Blintzes. Drains. Knuckle bear porridge frothing rheum nodules. Scrape foamy nonsense off the unprepared industry's roof-mouth skewered from spooked trailings landing ass-first in a pool of dollars and red-eyed blobs of bullion.
