I am building it word by word for you. It has
a formal constraint. It is missing that tiny thing that allows most
So I can't say much about my guts—or anything—which is
good. What I would say most quickly I can't say at all so I won't.
All atrocious, lofty pronunciations of truth must go. Also, any lyrical,
alluring romanticism is way out. I simply can't go out of control and
drip insidious stanzas about gold sunlight glinting off of a fish pond
or crimson zinnias rustling on a hill or birds flying through an indigo
sky. I can't wax cynical vicious factual indignant arrogant or optimistic.
So I won't discuss my mood. I won't talk about your hair. Good thing.
You wouldn't want to put up with all that anyway. It might rub you
way and I wouldn't want that. I can almost list what I won't put
into words. But not all of it. I will just put it this way: you thwart
to not think. Why can't I just stop?
Cautious, rapt, wildly happy, his mind stuck in clouds,
a typist bangs away most slowly.