Inspiration is like a hen. You have to wait for it to come to you. If you chase it, all you end up with for your troubles is winded lungs and bruised pride. That said, Franz Kafka cannot be taken lightly. And considering that I have been ‘courting the monster’ for far too long, I have decided to fill in the ‘in between time’ with scattered thoughts that come to me from time to time.
This will be the first installment of said filler.
I wrote a non-entity – something a friend said reminded him of Stephen King/ Richard Bachman. So, I present this as a tribute to the horror-man
“The sun shot lazy rays across her face. The last of the light was dying out, squeezing every ounce of breath out of her lungs. A strong gust of wind blew up the helms of her skirt
He saw that she had wooden legs. She ran surprisingly well for a cripple. Well, a handicapped person. Or a physically disabled person, or whatever the flavor of the month was. The point being, she was slowing down. Real life was a pragmatist hell, a motherfuckin’ rat race. It didn’t matter how hard you ran. What mattered was…………………….
will you, or won’t you, OUTRUN ME BITCH??? “