Anybody can write about writing when they write. The physical marks on the page, or pataphysical squibbly dos and don’ts that darken your desk from the accursed holyholoteloscreen in front of which you now sit, dear reader, are evidence of the manifestation of the writer as writer. And so anything that comes out can be considered writing, whether or not the blood is up and the mind is fucking the stars with artistic might, whether or not the modern muse sits sipping expensive waters and playing on her communicator beacon, waiting for godsknowwhat. Don’t you see that what I’m writing is written writing, held up by angels in the dark lord’s court of giggling fuck cattle, as written as anything that has come before? The writing writ large as Writ for some to see. Like you, dear reader.
Continue to allow me access to you language centers and I will attempt to emboozle you well.
Good morning, good afternoon, and goodnight.