Fuckin' writer types. They play with gullibility as a cat would with a ball of yarn, mildly amused because they know the privileged truth.
But here I am, always the hypocrite because who am I kidding, that yarn ball's damned fun to paw around with, just so long as I'm not the one coming unraveled. Touche you company of Shakespeare. Your wit is well-noted. It's a pity I won't be joining your ranks because I truly love this place. But maybe it's not so bad. I hate that haughty upper lip of proclaimed writers, assholing their way smartly through life's bowels because the recognition of that privileged knowledge and tongue feels so good. But it leaves a taste of shit in my mouth. And I know, or fuck, I fucking hope that air never becomes my defining one.
Shh, now. I think Sylvia's listening. I wish, maybe, that she'd smile at my words and pull up a rug corner for me. Oh, hey! I think I see her though falling slowly before this one window here upstairs, and she's content, alive in that magic space of hers. Hard to catch she is, and discreet too. I almost miss her. She's spinning webs of silk thread instead of words now, with eight arms and eight eyes, not two. What more would a perpetual reader and writer want. More eyes to read with and more arms to write with. I'd like to see her web sometime, but I won't ask questions. I bet she's the silent type.
