My hands are soft. But it takes everything to write like this. This isn’t a hobby. You have to give everything. More than you thought you knew you had. Then you have to give again. I’m dying no less than you are. I spend my days looking at the dying, looking at the dead. There’s nothing wrong with me. I chose this a long time ago.
The moment is so small that it makes bigger things happen. The moment has to happen now so it has an advantage. It insists on being like a second on a clock. It says, “Whatever the fuck you want, I’m going to make this next minute.”
I love pace. I see why it matters. I love compulsion. I see why it matters.
I love the parts that are compelled to work. And I love the parts that wait.