on fragments

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.