In a month's time from now, I'll be in New York. And from there I'll be off to Vermont for a writing course. It's a six weeks course at the Bread Loaf School of English. I'll be doing a graphic novel writing course as well as fiction writing. Besides, well apart from this, I've sold my soul for work, handful of financial assistance and an air conditioned room where people turn serious in the evenings.
I'm on the edit and oped page, and I also make a feature page. On the feature page, I write whatever comes to my mind. It's fun, different and the employers seem to have no issue with the twistedness of my words.
Lately, that's what's been up. The nights are late and smoky but at least I'm covering some reading which had led to some despair. When you're writing a book it's extremely difficult to follow books because they constantly make you over-think.
I don't think I'm getting the time to do exactly what I want to. It's upsetting to know that we -- humans -- are so ready to fuck our lives up. But that's life -- you got to what you got to do, and hopefully the side projects outline you well.
In other ways, someday soon, something should work out. An intangible theory to crack the eternal code of life should breakthrough the consciousness, I hope.
I can't tell more. Sometimes I think I'm not there.

The fiddler, he now steps to the road/He writes ev'rything's been returned which was owed/On the back of the fish truck that loads/While my conscience explodes.