I'm going to bed. Capped at five pages. Seven more to go- how can that be? I'm too tired to be philosophical and have failed in my endeavor to be done with this mess tonight/this early morning. Feeling very defeated and disappointed. Oh well, I guess I have all day tomorrow, even though that isn't really the way I feel. Burnt out, with not one more philosophical word left in me, must less seven pages.
When I am done with these essays, I'm going to explode with creativity, because I want to write so badly right now, just not what I ought to be writing.
Rewriting "Clover" as a novel. For now, anyway. I want it to be a script but I don't know how to do scripts. Sigh!
It probably would have been better if Jacob had gone into shock; instead, he merely sat and stared at the wound without any idea as to how he should free himself from the painful mess. The blood sputtered out of his leg like a tiny volcano, as hot as molten lava, and so dark that it was nearly black against the silver metal of what had once been a part of his bicycle. His head seemed to have grown in the past thirty seconds, so that his helmet, now marred with a long crack along the top, felt like a giant mouth crushing down, sucking on his head. The man in the car probably had gone into shock, sitting still with the airbag still pressed tightly against his face.
I thought an image of youth might be a more dramatic start, especially something violent. Maybe not.
Yours, pathetically and self-pityingly,
Me
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