Any Compulsion Tries To Justify

I Start A Book And I Want To Make It Perfect, Want It To Turn Every Color, Want It To Be The World. Ten Pages In, I've Already Blown It, Limited It, Made It Less, Marred It. That's Very Discouraging. I Hate The Book At That Point. After A While I Arrive At An Accommodation: Well, It's Not The Ideal, It's Not The Perfect Object I Wanted To Make, But Maybe—if I Go Ahead And Finish It Anyway—i Can Get It Right Next Time. Maybe I Can Have Another Chance.

I Know What "nothing" Means, And Keep On Playing.

The Fear Is For What Is Still To Be Lost.

Aging And Its Evidence Remain Lifes Most Predictable Events, Yet They Also Remain Matters We Prefer To Leave Unmentioned, Unexplored.

Do Not Whine... Do Not Complain. Work Harder. Spend More Time Alone.