“Your dead shall live; their bodies shall rise. You who
dwell in the dust, awake and sing for joy! For your dew is a dew of light, and
the earth will give birth to the dead.” Isaiah
There is a silence inside. A darkened temple. The church I
never go to. The none.
Writing is a sort of faith. That the haunting would be
complete. That you would understand. That I am able.
The novel is a rough draft. Now waiting to do. I took a
break inside but I did take hikes, rode my bike. I kept my job. But the writing
is dead. The writing will rise again.
Will I write a book? The novel will be a book. You will
My temple is allergic to eggs. That is ironic in light of my
work. I didn’t make it up. I didn’t have to. The tragedies became elegant
cakes. I wasn’t writing it. I was typing.
Now all is born again.
Labels: everlasting life, writing