P1030934Midnight marks the start of another insomniacal session in servitude to The Mighty Pen… this clock tick-tocks beside me… a delicate refrain… it has served humanity some two hundred and forty years and shall surely continue on long after I am gone… unless the work can acquire immortality… who was holding this pocket watch in 1777… another writer… awake late at night in the delicious solitude of the suicide hours only real writers can truly take on without sinking into profound despair… ticking is a quiet assurance against the Kafkaesque critic creeping up the stairs… I must resist… I must finish this first draft of The Dark Side of Tinsel Town… despite perpetual poverty, a writer’s destiny… ours is not to question why… just “write it, damn you” Joyce used to say, “what else are you good for?” … to the manuscript as if to the front, let two hundred years of time tick along beside my lines… I remember T.S. Eliot writing, “Midnight shakes the memory, Like a madman shakes a dead geranium.”

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