Nausea, typed in v2.02

I am here yet elsewhere. There appears to be not a soul answering my queries on the other end of this virtual postbox, which continues to blush bright red at both their absence and my sheer temerity. Meanwhile, I continue to dwell in circular confusion because bouncing plastic is promising the cheeriest of one-minute responses and good-natured people are raising money by selling roses in Cherry Hill. That confuses me even more, because I once knew a girl called Cherry Hill.

No, you’re not meant to understand. I don’t always want to be understood, comprehended or deduced. I read too many open books, and without a single exception they make for the most banal, the most tedious of literary endeavours.

I strain to hear half my world sleeping, some half a world away or further. Breathe, breathe in, breathe out. I hope your eyelids are flickering with only the most all-encompassing of dreams. Enveloped. Completely enveloped.

Comments: 2

    Licked. Completely licked.

    Tickle | 02.13.07, 15:11

    The best things are always those half-unstated ones.

    I was at the Literature Festival in Lancaster last year and Andrew O’Hagan (Booker Prize shortlist, etc. etc.) said “The difference between a literary work and a lowbrow one is that the literary one leaves the creative work in making sense of it to the reader.”

    So you’re in good company. Pretty much most of what you write is likie this I think.

    looby | 02.13.07, 16:27

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