Goddamned writers, man.

Writers.

They are under no obligation to create metaphysical coherence; only meaningful stories. Narratives, after all, defy coherence; they are the source of it.  Narratives make sense only because they themselves demand it; to hell with objectivity and all else. As with law and justice systems, they take a bastard of a moment to institutionalize themselves when there were previously none; and then in a stroke worthy of Fyodor Karamazov, make it stretch backward such that time only happens when the law becomes instituted. 

They are not allowed banal self-doubt: their doubt is higher than that. Reality will fall to ashes in such a Cartesian gaze. In dealing with a writer you cannot have self-doubt, or you will die, your sorry state of personal history rendered to utter nothingness. 

They gaze at you with eyes worse than hell: for at least in hell, your soul is valued. It is eyesight that sees nothing because it sees everything all at once, all their words in deadly formation of a dance and a battle between two samurai cohabiting the same brain.

They fill nothing with things: and in so doing populate the empty space between atoms with yarns so exquisite in their formulation it has always been true. History has always been complete. 

They do not lie; only tell you truths that your brain cannot accept - for literature does not happen in the brain: it happens along the region from your heart to somewhere in the vicinity of your groin.

They are orphan planets: their suns burned out eons ago, they now orbit according to the gravity of the galaxy they inhabit, much to the derision and judgment of other planets whose mother is a young bitch of a sun.

They are ultimately alone: their words their only company, and even then, when words do not suffice.. - No, they cannot finish this thought. Words suffice. They are the only things that do. 

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