Hordes, 4

Hanging with writers always feel strange – there is a certain order to the way they behave that is noticeable, yes, but hard to define – I look and I think, are these people mine? With their black shirts and coats and tight fitting jeans, they smoke cigarettes so their bodies stay lean and they never look happy but do laugh a lot. We stay up and drink and we talk and we talk about projects and papers and stories we’ve read, tales of young maidens we lured to our beds, pleas for some meaning to come from the mass rush of tactile sensations so that our creations will be widely adored and thus save us from lapsing back into obscurity and day depression. We are all too wrapped up in ourselves to suggest it – but everyone wonders, ‘what if we we weren’t up? what if we stopped drinking and followed the sun and made something of days and the hours contained – perhaps if we focus a bit, then our brains will relax like they do when we do enough drugs or have too much fun or make too much love.’ But instead we start talking about the new reviews on pitchfork.


~ by perfectionatrix on December 2, 2010.

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