Naive

The Great Novel evades me, slips through my fingers and taunts me at a distance. I tear out my hair to appease the gods, employ every tactic of procrastination in the book, hell I write that book sooner than this one, but to what avail. The street outside buzzes with life, summer returns for a sweet revival and the sidewalks are littered with tables. We drove to the ocean to look at it but the air was sticky and your wet feet unsatisfying (your body aches for complete immersion anytime it nears the sea), the seasons are changing, you know it is time to accept it. Virginia Woolf killed herself, all your heroes die but you think perhaps you want to live; it's a newfound idea, and you move it between your hands like putty. The vodka in your glass melts the ice, slowly, methodically, like the Arctic glaciers meet their demise now you watch eternity in its transparency. It's all sentences, one after another, but you are not sure yet your crime.

I rest my hands on the typewriter. It burns crumbles under my hopes, a pile of ashes at my fingertips.  Unto dust shalt thou return. But not now.

Not yet.