Headphones and empty pages. The container has been here for a while. The one line elevator pitch. I keep making it a more robust container, but no one is ready to play.
I have been hunting characters. My hero is so elusive that the truth is likely stranger than the alternative fiction I craft. If I do my job, it may be the only truth that ends up surviving. That's the kind of ego required to want to journey on.
Feeling a lot like Cpt. Willard except I keep staring at the godforsaken ceiling fan hoping to catch the shape of the thing. A full personal file is on the hard drive, but that snail on inching forward on the razorblade bleeding. FUCK. I'm not even on the river with the boys. Napalm and surfing would be a godsend.
This kind of thing always makes me yearn for cigarettes.
2009 here we go again. Be prepared to send in the emergency tarp because this chain has another 120 years.