wildcat

(Mike Mignola, Hellboy: The Island, I certainly have days like this)

And thus, the laying on of hands: fingers to keyboard. I'm in my underwear, the Sun looms ever closer to Earth, I've been reading about apocalypses again, there's gin in the freezer, I'm heading out shortly to pick up some food for dinner, and what's most important: I'm writing. I'm going to pound out some things onto the screen and I'm going to save them (SAVE US, they cry, lapsed Catholics on their death beds dangling before Lucifer's fingernails), I seem to be bleeding poetry again in the heat. The heat!

Will report back in a few hours with victorious shouts and/or cries of defeat following my own private Alamo: the blank page.

Well, not that private with the incessant babbling and all those other writers out there.