I want to trust that my frustration with the way I have written two hundred pages does not mean I have to start over, it means I am ready to shift towards the revolution or metamorphosis of what makes for the end of a good book.

anti-psychotics among other things I’ve heard, rob people of dream life.  Had two sets of very intense dreams last night.  one was I was taking a timed test with a roomful of people. The test was making something out of materials that included thick patches of fur and yarn from the seventies like mike kelley.  You had to make the thing by following a strict set of instructions, one instruction at a time, without knowing what the thing was supposed to turn out to be.  I was doing so badly, feeling this horrible injustice as I tried so hard to follow the instructions, and you can’t go back and fix anything even if you think you should start over.  I looked around and could see that other people’s projects were becoming three-dimensional, round like varieties of squashes, and mine was flat, pieces of fur sewn to thick paper.  But it is not clear to me whether I thought other people’s projects were turning into anything I liked or wanted to make or whether that was an issue at all, if all I was wrapped up in was whether or not the test was just.


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