again and again young men write me the same letter: “I can’t write, but I want to write. I read your stuff and I want to write just like you. can you please tell me something that will help?” all around me the hills are on fire, floodwaters run through here swarming with rats. the streets roar and yawn to swallow me. I’m choking and can’t breathe. they want to write? like me? what do they mean? what’s writing? I only want to go to bed close my eyes and sleep forever.
