I’m typing this out on the corner of a desk so cluttered I can’t even rest my coffee cup on the edge. It’s four sixteen in the morning and this, today, is how I avoid looking at naked women and losing all the righteous vigors and passions. I’m a man so bleary, so wearied from the race of life, so dirty, so fantastically mucked up in time I can’t find even one hour to rest my own soul.
So here I’m in this black room blinking out the light of this monitor dotted and marked by the little children’s greasy little fingers. I’m sipping strong coffee, looking out on these words through several smudges on my glasses. I’m nursing feet and body bruised and sore from the labors of survival. I’m listening to little clips of Jack Kerouac on Youtube and wondering why God ever gave me any talent to write, why He gave me talent for anything if my life is so frenzied I can’t use any of it.
Who’s to blame? Point your finger.