Writers are spooky creatures. We concern ourselves too often with every sinister, seductive, tragic thing, pin our skin to brutal sensations and wait.
We seem to imagine there’s a puzzle inside of us that fits into the puzzle inside of everything. Such arrogance, such faith. Everyone is a clue. Every touch is annihilation. Every face is the possibility of salvation or the grave.
Writers are demons, gods, angels, train tracks, machines, tricksters, mobsters, bombs, wristwatches, lovers, strippers, criminals, skyscrapers, bugs.
But then maybe we’re all writers.
Maybe everyone is just terrified they’ll run out of words.