Punctuation is losing its allure. I remember when I used to wonder how to use a colon. Now I just wonder how it manages to extract water and salt from solid wastes before they are eliminated from the body.
If I do, I might finally be able to remember the dreams that I am certain I am having about writing, which currently escape my memory due to excessive tiredness.
There is no time to stop and smell the flowers. Or to pick the flowers, eat their petals and die of poisoning. Most especially, there is no to write about the flowers using painfully hackneyed metaphors.
Stocks and shares on my reality index are climbing, whilst my imagination exchange has nosedived and is about to crash and burn. I am creatively bankrupt, and the bailiffs are hammering at the door.
It is winter. Because it is dark. Because it is cold. Because my head is no longer centrally heated by sparks being set off in my cerebral cortex. And because, tragically, there’s probably something good on TV.
Facebook is apparently where we’re all waxing lyrical now, and it takes every last drop of my failing inspiration to provide an average of seventy-three hateful, passive-aggressive status updates each day.
There have been sickening moments recently when I imagined that my obscure verbal outpourings would be improved if they were accompanied by photos of a dog in a hat, or alabaster-skinned children.
I have finally given into my long-held neurosis that demons lift my fingerprints from my keyboard at night, in order to clone themselves into likenesses of me and causes unholy terror amongst God-fearing folk.
These days, I get my fiction kicks through application forms. Making myself sound experienced, efficient and eminently employable is enough of a challenge to my creativity.
It was always my ambition, at the age of 37, to donate my brain to scientific research, so that medical students could poke it with sticks and try to figure out where it all went so dreadfully wrong.
I have nothing to say about the world economic crisis, other than the simple fact that I wish eternal damnation and abject poverty on every banker, broker and city trader.
The last original idea I had for a piece of creative prose was in 1972. It involved a Fisher Price activity centre. Sadly, I was ten months old at the time, and couldn’t even hold a pen.
[Click here for the full text of Ghost reader]