A writer’s job is never done:

I’m always writing.

(It never stops, itneverstopsatall)

I’m writing/I’m writing.

I’m driving/I’m writing

I’m doing the dishes/I’m writing

I’m shitting/I’m writing

I’m sleeping/I’m still writing

There is no escape, no time of day, no place too…

Is nothing sacred?

No, the opposite.

Everything is sacred.

And this is a holy book I’m writing.

Trying to get every last thing down, every blade of grass, every hair on the head of a dandelion, every tear in my ducts

Trying to get it down in as few words as possible.

Do I write to be read?

Not necessarily.

I write so it is written.

If I don’t write it, who will?

And if it is never written did it happen?

So I keep writing because it is holy and it keeps happening.

And I can’t stop because it never stops.

Even still I am writing.

Ever still I am.