i haven't written in months and i fear i've forgotten how. it's become too tedious, as i find myself increasingly uncreative, tethered to the works of others like a burr or a leech. i'm unable to shift from the themes etched in me (the nature of knowledge, the goodness of doubt, a certain bitterness in regard to family and the law, et cetera). i've come to hate them. i don't want to touch them again.

 symbolic saturation could be the cause; it's bad for the brain to see much in anything. in order to preserve my sanity i will try to not think at all.

 style and structure (a mere organisational capacity) appear to have left me, as well. my knowledge about them has blurred around the edge (drenched, rank, unreadable) (the week-old paper used in a litter box, due to a lack of money or motivation). i cannot think of similes. cats make terrible people and should be forcibly castrated.

it is apparent that i am effectively shipwrecked, but it's been easier to come to terms to it than i expected. a person incapable of expressing a particular sensation in a manner understandable to others is not necessarily deficient. he or she would be unfit to be a poet or politician, but that is all.

the one thing i can do is write dubiously honest love letters about nearly everybody. they are all ridiculous and go like this:

"...and then you'd ask for cigarettes. of course i would give you one. i'd think you were a fair-faced fellow, like antinous or saint sebastian, and for a minute i would love you. crowned in light, leonine, easily tempted by theft, murder and the joy of being right; you only feared getting caught. and what else would you be frightened of? i know i would act on the inclination. 'the world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. the curves of your lips rewrite history'.

i wish it were easier to generate attachment. i get bored too quickly.