i can think of nothing to write. my mind is blank, wide open and visible, ideal for intellectual, psychological, or literary voyeurs. it is vast and unpopulated. this ocean will not turn to grass, it will remain wide and wet and salty. i can think of nothing to write.

sidewalks in my neighborhood are laid down in curves, peculiarly post-modern. the city planner thought no one wanted to go anywhere directly.

there are no great causes here, only disputes over hedges, the color of trim on a house, the volume of a party, parking in front of someone else's house, or barking dogs.






i live in a place where there is nothing to fight for and plenty to fight over.