My Head Hurts

Last week, due to illness, I neither read nor wrote. I hovered, which sucked because it caused anxiety attacks that kept me from sleeping when the only thing I really should have been doing last week was sleeping.

So here I am, in my carrel, with only a bit of last week's fogginess remaining and writing has been a major chore. I should rephrase that. Writing has been more of a chore than it normally is. It's as though the current chapter rewrote itself in my absence so that it now sucks. It has stopped making sense.

This newfound (or newly acknowledged) suckiness makes me dread going back to the diss chunks I have already written because if the Surrealists have stopped making sense after a week away, I can't imagine what several months are going to do to the logic supposedly holding together Burian and the introduction. I'm half expecting the printer to spit out the entire first chapter and introduction a sentence at a time, out of order, and on small slips of paper, when I print out everything in order to do revisions. It would be like something out of a Švankmajer film.


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