I think I'm finally feeling low enough to finish writing the horribly depressing novel I started writing over a year ago.
I don't completely mind. I'll be glad to finish it; the writing is some of my finest, I think. Very unconventional... abrasive. I've adopted the phrase "experimental writing." It's like, if E.E. Cummings were to write a novel. Lots of experimentation with word forms, sentence structures, decomposition... I like it.
I just may as well be doing something active if I'm going to mope around a seasonal insomnia.
"Somebody told me when the bomb hits, everybody in a two mile radius will be instantly sublimated, but if you lay face down on the ground for some time, avoiding the residual ripples of heat, you might survive, permanently fucked up and twisted like you're always underwater refracted. But if you do go gas, there's nothing you can do if the air that was once you is mingled and mashed with the kicked up molecules of the enemy's former body. Big-kid-tested, motherf--ker approved."
| 
