Blue layers

He was blue. Or at least bluish. That seemed the strangest thing to him, right now, out of all the strange things that were around him. And were him.

The red desert stretching around him with the black sky, somehow light overhead, no sun beaming down or fierce heat on his head but just the strange dry rock, or sand, or something, particles that weren’t like any other he’d… Continue reading

Continue Reading

Writing is a myth

Writing is a myth. No one’s writing. No one knows how. No one can get it right, ever. Writing is folklore, witchcraft, uncensored heart bleedings and all that. Nonsense. Trivia.

Writing comes from the blunt parts of things, the edges, the rough-cut, hand-sawn wood ends that get thrown into the reject pile. The scrap yard, that’s the place for writing. It’s a heap of fodder, a heap of refuse… Continue reading

Continue Reading