Unsaid words, unmade beds, unfinished books.
Frankly, I haven't read anything except my lines, again and again, rehearsing, performing and starting over.
My typewriter didn't see the light since I stepped off the train at Manchester Piccadilly.
Having moved into my new home, I shoved it under the desk in and couldn’t make myself reach for it since then. I still carried my notebook and a pencil in my pocket, but they remained unused.
It was all intake and no exhaust. The only genuine words that came out of me were my frequent telegrams to London. By god, I was frightened.
I was sure he would be pushing the limits of his sanity. Not in his usual playful daredevil way. It would be a mechanical doll hysteria. A dummy jerking its limbs and spitting out manic laughter.
There was too much sadness that I hoped I was wrong about. What about it, they’d ask. Friends come and go. Friends talk, friends drink, friends say goodbye.
Why making so much fuss about it, it’s everyone’s life. “It’s about growing up”.
By which they mean hooking up with a nice girl in a lovely house, drive your kids to school and save for holidays, die a respected miserable fool.
That’s what they say, reasoning, comforting themselves with the power of sense . I used to say the word “sense” a lot. It makes me barf now.
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