Write Your Goddamned Book Now. The World

We Feel That To Reveal Embarrassing Or Private Things, We Have Given Someone Something, That, Like A Primitive Person Fearing That A Photographer Will Steal His Soul, We Identify Our Secrets, Our Past And Their Blotches, With Our Identity, That Revealing Our Habits Or Losses Or Deeds Somehow Makes One Less Of Oneself.

God: I Own You Like I Own The Caves. The Ocean: Not A Chance. No Comparison. God: I Made You. I Could Tame You. The Ocean: At One Time, Maybe. But Not Now. God: I Will Come To You, Freeze You, Break You. The Ocean: I Will Spread Myself Like Wings. I Am A Billion Tiny Feathers. You Have No Idea What's Happened To Me.

I Think There's Great Value To The Associated Press And To Reuters, But If You Wanted To Generate Original Content, Maybe Written By Local Writers, It Just Takes A Little Bit Of Openness To Open Your Pages Up To A Wider Freelance Writer Pool, And Then You Might Find New Voices And A Wider Array Of Voices, And Definitely More Original Content That Can't Be Found Anywhere Else.

But I'm Thinking About 12 Things At Once, A Hundred Thousand Times A Day. Most People Do, I Would Imagine.

I Am A Freak In Secondhand Velour, A Leper Who Uses L'oreal Anti-sticky Mega Gel. I Am Rootless, Ripped From All Foundations, An Orphan Raising An Orphan And Wanting To Take Away Everything There Is And Replace It With Stuff I've Made.