There are days when the caps of my fingers won’t come off. I’ve set up ‘pataphysical monitors to watch the air around me as I sleep and have come up with only vague notions of glue and rocks being poured over my hands, but more as an idea of the act than the act itself and my fingers show no sign of wear.
Then why this blockage? Have I offended the ghosts of All Dead Authors that hook hoses to the backs of our heads in our quiet moments and pump their bilge in and out of us? Why, yes, I do remember that night now that I mention it. Pissing on the grave of the Word. Digging up the bones of the Poem. Setting the skull of Art on that bucket and and throwing gravel at it until the jawbone’s smile came off half crooked like it was about to say something haughty.
But wasn’t that a lark, good spirits of the craft? I was certainly amused if I remember my mind. I suppose for now that I will simply soak my fingers in turpentine and strong tea and watch this crow pick berries from the belly of a dead bear until I am returned to the good graces of the Somethingorotheren.