The never mornings. Where the sun rises halfway in the sky, stays for 6 hours, then sets again.
You never need sunglasses. You never have to be anywhere before you’re ready. There’s no time of day specifically saved for coffee.
The last thing I want to do is sleep.
The last thing I ever want to do is sleep.
Morning obligations haunt me. I don’t do mornings. I don’t do mornings ever. I like the night much better. I don’t like the way mornings pull you out of sleep, the way they’re colder than any other moments, the ache of pulling my own weight up out of the soft, safe place I just dreamed, or maybe lied unconsciously without any thoughts, up for some faux feeling of responsibility and purpose, to spend hours somewhere else pretending I care.
More and more I think there’s an element of fiction writing that’s performative. If you want your stories to carry a particular charge of feeling, you have to experience that feeling while you’re working. I don’t know that you can fake it, or at least I don’t know that I’ve ever been able to fake it, because the choices you make when you’re writing—the rhythms you adopt, the phrases you construct, the effect one word has when it’s nestled alongside another—are so highly nuanced, and have so much to do with the ultimate emotional effect of a story, so that if you aren’t feeling along with your sentences, your instincts will gradually lead you astray.
i feel like i can’t go anywhere anymore without people soothsaying my downfall. even the cashier at taco bell was all “the flock of crows taken to following you portend a disastrous and blah blah fucking blah,” i get it, i’m about to undergo a storm of tribulation, what frickin ever