Like a Lover's voice, misquoting the mountainside, stay in line
Listen, this is my Holiday, and my blog. And I will name my entries as I well please–As I WELL PLEASE!
It is Christmas Break for those of us who count it.
I wish this could be a long, well written and magical endeavor for the both of us, but I can barely string together a sentence. I am but a jeweler, with a handful of pearls and crippled fingers.
(Do not worry, I am not without my tricks and whispers, I will guide you through these halls of broken thought)
Still, I write to you with purpose and splendor, though my words flash like backfired fireworks and half sunken sparklers. I can still rock it, as they say at the grammar hall of Rock n Roll.
Look at that last sentence, even. It’s like a fucking lightning bug parade.
See? I’m also sayin’ shit like that.
Shit like smart shit.
My novel sits in it’s resting place, awaiting my jibs and jabs and curses. I have left it alone for the Holidays…FOR IMPORTANT SHIT IS AFOOT.
I will tell you more later when I’m ready. WHEN I CAN TYPE A COMPLETE THOUGHT WITHOUT CAPS OR ASTERISKS.
Just know that I am excited. Important things are being done. Things with index cards and newborn mechanics. Things of ink and magic.
A tabletop game to rival the unknown God of such things is being built and broken into a life of slavery before my fingers. I have toiled over it’s scribbles and white fields of index card blankness every day, and every night.
It is a shambling, rasping, motherfucker who stares up from beneath my hands. I am a surgeon of index cards, and he is a newborn King.
These words are a time capsule, and you’re eyes are the shovel.