Adrift

There's a lot of debris in my brain, meandering on the currents of my stream of consciousness, often getting caught in little whirlpools. This debris, in theory, is collecting on the shore into a form. A novel. So far, I've got about three quarters of the frame, part of a wall, and a lot of fucked up decor. But it hasn't quite begun to resemble its full shape.

I can see all the ideas out there, in the foamy chaos of my brain. Drifting, just out of reach. All the pieces are there, I just can't seem to get them to the destination, put them together.

I want to kill Warren Ellis. He writes like a caffeine driven robot of semiotic destruction. I don't actually want him dead, I would then be sad without his words. But I want someone to forcefully restrain him and dose him with transindustrial quantities of whiskey so that he is too incoherent to form complete sentences and maybe, while he's stumbling around naked trying to find his cigarettes, I'll have time to put the debris together.

I'll have a novel, and he'll have written approximately a billion words of fiction, articles, and blogs. But I'll have a novel damn it.

Some days, you just pray for a storm.