A Warning Sign

that The Work is turning on me and that I need to slow down and reorient myself to the present, to its present: the constant switching of writing implements, pencil to pen, pen to pencil, retractable to capped, refillable to disposable, felt tip to metal to graphite to felt, and the accompanying online foraging for justification on matters clearly, clearly important – information on ink life, waste / value, etc etc – to come to a pointless imitation of a decision to make up for the absence of a real one in The Work, the mythical right key to a nonexistent door and the handwritten note duct-taped to its splintered frame that I mostly type these days anyhow because my handwriting is shit.