writing

Notes on the Perpetual Deferral of Being

This scrawl here that preserves in its (literary) texture what it loses being prettified in the neo-modernist conventions of universal design and in the san-serif font so distant from what I scratched illegibly on paper with a pen. I have stopped writing—writing is too full of temptation: to nostalgia (for the inkpot and quil), to self-love (I had tender feelings for the brutal gestures of my own hand), to self-loathing (the pen's ink is too much like blood and draws sickly, confessional prose).

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