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Untitled Prose
The keyboard he loved and hated clacked endlessly with the Sisyphisan thanklessness of his eternal task. Words poured from his fingertips, becoming meaningless garbled lines on white-void screens. There formed rhythm in his work, back and forth, back and forth; clack-clack-clack-clack, then hold backspace, like typewriters of Sisyphus. Wait… did I do that one already?
The keyboard clacked endlessly with thankless fucking something, poetry in a goddamn mason jar and apple pie americana fuck me. No one ever read anything I ever wrote, and that’s fine; why should I care about that? I only wanted recognition anyway, which is hardly respectable for any real artist to dream of. Thankless monotony and endless litanies of deleted unused script to form prayers to gods that do not hear– which is to say all gods– unholy hedonism and frustrating, endless clack-clack-clack and nothing at all is ever, ever accomplished.
I was going to write a book one of these days. The only dream I have ever dared to whisper to the void of unlistening ears, I kept promising it:
I am going to write a book.
