Well it's happened: the deadline has arrived and I'm not nearly finished
I will have to rush to sew up the messy seams, tidy tidy tidy and hurry around its edges... make it fresh, make it new, make it good, but, most of all, make it safe.
They wrote to say they wanted it all, immediately.
I'm in a panic.
How will I ever polish it, finish it, make it whole?
How can I make it work, at all?
I feel like I have awoken and been told I'm under arrest. The grace Josef K sought, the guilt he felt, the betrayal of his own desire. It's all here.
Shot through it is like a great behemoth of meat... shot through like a great sinewy sibling-thing... nasty little man under a giant ear
it is shot through with mannerism, rhetoric, passion, but nothing sticks, nothing works, nothing is
it is shot through with vocabulary... that's all ... vocabulary
words, words ,words... little symptoms that hiss and spit
froth and howl
like it's not me speaking
vocabulary that isn't from me, not for me, not of me, not by me
it is a contrivance that must be finished
I will go, then and finish