Writing isn’t physically digestible, something taken into the body orally. Instead, writing teases, inducing the imaginable. You can just about suck it, the sugars in saliva, but never a mouth full, a gulp of cream.
Your mistake, a tiny statement, provides the proper oscillation to commit an answer, rivalling against an ephemeral defeat. You must then begin to translate its silences, wary of minute results.
I’ve ruled out everything. There isn’t a single thing I enjoy. Regardless, I write.
In my ignorance, there was no limitation on language. Now I strain to form a sentence. My exactitude is unhealthy. I sit all day in front of the page, depressed at the fact that I cannot translate my worthlessness into a form: I have no art, and therefore cannot be redeemed. Disappearance is the only option, and night shifts at the land’s end will fund it.