First, off come the pants. The legs are the engine of the imagination and I must have oxygen touching every hair if the day is to be lustfully word engorged. If allowed by the damned imps that knock about my ceiling, I rub my legs with marbles of the finest electrum magicum to titillate the knees and tendons. When my bones begin to sweat, I know that my lower bloods are ready.
Now to gather the ink. I grab my crooked pitchfork and head to the woods. In the woods lies a pit. In the pit live filthy, violent dwarves forever running in a circle, stomping and tearing at the earth and turning to liquid whatever living matter I bring for them to desecrate. Some days a cloud of flies strung together with tinsel. At other times, when I wish my words to take on a more carnivorous bent, I throw to them other, filthier dwarves and watch as they hesitate in their mayhem (if only for a moment.) Even so, they allow me to dip a bucket between them.
With my legs invigorated and a bucket of ink at my disposal, I sit down on a straight backed wooden chair with a self-transcribed copy of Bingely Scruntson’s How to Write Pure Money and Chew the Dripping Fat of Fame, a book unlike any actually written. This I light on fire with a ceremonial marijuana wand and, once scorched and smoldering, toss the book into the bucket where it imbues the ink with a scrotal mouth feel and the aftertaste of a ray gun suicide.
Not much left now but to down the bucket, every last drop, and wait until the vomit of a new day’s composition begins to stir in the bowels of my incorpsulated muse organ.