Fire up the mixtape. I don't have the mixtape? I'll just YouTube the songs I can remember. Hope the ads don't spoil the mood.
There's got to be an app that makes writing visible in real-time. I mean, an electronic app for electronic writing. It's already that way in a notebook; scratching out words, adding ideas in the margins, treading multiple paths before backtracking and settling on one.
The Delete Key erases every other possibility. Other paths, really, because those possibilities were actualized for a moment or two. Then deleted, electrons scattered, no trace that I can find again. Not that notebooks are much better. The ones I have sit on my bookshelves, a tiny time machine transporting the person who wrote them further and further away from me.
No late nights. Now I write on work breaks. Flounder for fifteen minutes and then refill my water bottle. Eventually descend into the abstract in the hopes that the meaning will emerge from the brambles later.
My surroundings are too concrete. Too many blank walls. Half-walls. I can see over the top, even climb over them if I have to. So far it hasn't been necessary.
Lost sight of the audience. Only echoes left to argue with, in vain, in vain.