maggie

So I sit down tonight because I've been collecting some things to say in a post to you. There's been a dialogue in my head for a day or so. But when I sit down to write it out, what comes to mind instead is the copy of Kerouac i sent with you on a plane. There is a stack of books Emily is packing and i start flipping through Maggie Cassidy, reading fragments, trying to link them together with the guilt of things to be done resonating and wiping out any end to a clear thought. I told you that I was having a hard time locating an exact feeling... anyway... I wonder if writerly genius types every lose their thoughts. here's Kerouac, just something i found:

"I was ecstatically insane in my innocence. I knew joys not by name but that they crossed my clotting breast of hot blood and disappeared unnamed, unknown, uncommunicated with the thoughts of others but arranged in the same manner..."