I write. Or something like it. I drink coffee-- black. I stay up all night; I sleep for fifteen hours. I scroll through Wikipedia in search of weird facts concerning the physics of sound and possum anatomy and the atomic nucleus. I spend a whole Lincoln on vending machine garbage and gorge while watching Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. I sing Fiona Apple till I'm hoarse and then I wheeze out Fiona Apple till I pass out. I go on Tumblr. I write a short story. I check my e-mail. I look at pictures of my cats and embrace melancholia. I smoke a cigarette and chastise myself. I defend Sylvia Plath to the pseudo-intellectual Liberal Arts crowd. I tend to my Flannery O'Connor alter. I type "Cormac McCarthy" into Google Images. I curse time and space for not dumping me out in the middle of Missouri during the Southern Gothic literary movement. I like ugly words that start with "C"-- clot, curdle, churn, cataclysm, cyst, coagulate, cacophony, coarse, chafe, crepuscular. I watch 48 Hours Mystery until I'm positive that the penciled facial composite of some bearded madman is under my bed. I open the window. I close it, or try to. I never change my contacts. I lace my work boots. I consider the ground-hog. I shrivel and screech at Michel Foucault's theory that writing is death to the author; the audience reads a written work and projects an image of said author onto society and this image, this "other," will endure beyond the author's end exhale. I hold my breath. I have to exhale. YOU should click the links below to read my published writings and assist in crafting my "other." Kill me, kill me. Writing is death. I wanna endure with teeth bared-- a perpetual grind through the concept of time and metaphysics and the sound barrier.