fictions, speculative dreams, and meditations
Ideas were building all night,
by the third I knew it was time.
Begin by moving windows to hide clutter,
and move on to editor-selection:
nvAlt, of course.
No, that’s where I store shit.
TW is where I do my serial work.
WP, keep it where it lives!
That was an evil dream
until I remembered
QuickCursor could save my soul;
it drops down to reveal
(bless me, and calm me) WriteRoom.
Poetry slows down as I enter development mode. Behind-the-scenes is looking pretty freaky right now, I wish I could describe it for you, but it exists in an independent framework that has yet to encroach on word-space.
Damp from Rain,
Your Lovely Soul
(in progress)
I heard that as a string of growls,
followed by: Smash, Thump, Drag.
If that wasn’t intended, you can start over.
The manic screen
flares green at me,
“You!”
and then it goes dark;
I stab it awake.
“Now!”
it’s dark again,
stab it!
“Function Key!”
This time there’s an empty Mine Sweep grid being assaulted by an angry arrow.
It goes dark again, and
the angry arrow is back,
jabbing me with accusations.
Lines only exist as descriptions; it’s the same with words
which flare into being and vanish,
straining against vacuum.
