Don DeLillo’s Falling Man. Reading this now. The prose is just perfect.
Yesterday I re-read this piece I had been working on and had set aside for what felt like forever, and lo I still like it. I was pleasantly surprised. Maybe I can finish this thing.
I don’t think I can write poetry anymore, hm. Everything turns into prose. But meh, the words can take whatever form they want, as long as they leave my head.
One thought on “on fragments”