What am I saying? A story perhaps, as a story that we tell from father to son, or rather from mother to son, or rather two, a story that I convey to me as well. It would be a story that would survive the day and spend the night of that day to the other, or something like that, or another. Well, maybe if I listen, I strums, the sound of keys in this message that I do not send, but I intend, however, without knowing exactly who or what a message that I intended without destination or recipient.
Well, I listen:
Two men talk, one more than the other, a stronger the other, in fact, one louder than the other, they joke, only laughed.
There. So I listen and sleep. I forget that piece of text, this sentence written pianotée more accurately, I repeat, I repeat, I forget his keys, the percussive music, the sound that I do when I write, the sound it produces This little machine when I am writing sentences at night when I can not sleep. It moved to hear and the sound of his writing, that we love and which I am responsible, is inappropriate, it does not fit with the image that people have of literature, or something resembling it, is perfectly unfit, a mobile phone is not unique to literature. And yet there it takes shape, the night when I can not sleep. This, it might be elsewhere, is contingent, except that here, this is where I invest the literature.
Two men talk, one more than the other, in fact, and stronger, in fact, they joke, one laughs, it's a fact.
A bed and a mobile phone as an inkstand, I think I'm some kind of writer and share my scribe, my cellphone, my more-than-scribe-cell plays a significant role in this impression . My more-than-scribe-portable and me at night in bed, lying, camouflaged, we cut almost in the world, I will hide my more-than-laptop-scribe its function, I use it for perfectly unfit. Because it is unbearable to write on his cell phone-phrases, I would say the sentence, the sentences of a novel coming unknown since all do hardly the sort and we dread, the fear, as you will, in future. It drags, in fact, intuitive writing mode has a nominal relationship with the intuition behind it is slow, it's full of mistakes, it ignores the words, I need to teach him, the clock is ticking, but not sentences, hours passed, but the sentences are long in coming, fucking more-than-scribe-portable. Unless this is me with my technique of junk, with this more-than-scribe-Mobile, which too often goes her head, and which often touches the walls of the chamber surrounding it may well remain Besides, I have an intuition. Unless this is me, hiding the light of more-than-scribe-portable, forgetting to listen to my music finally percussive strumming, yet not ceasing strum, but not progressing as far or so ago, or Then without me really noticing, as if my more-than-scribe-Mobile worked for me. That's right, let's say it works for me, my more-than-scribe-portable. Let's hear it:
Two men talk, one more than the other, in fact, and stronger, in fact, they joke and one laughs, it's a fact.
The image of a pure literature, handwritten, outdated, yet I dream at night when I can not sleep, I dream that I write a novel that I started on a cell phone that therefore dysfunctional to perfection, my more-than-scribe-portable, my invention, my machine to destroy my sentences, forced to start over, my more-than-scribe-portable, my machine to reflect the image of pure literature, my more-than-scribe-Mobile pushes me to fault disrupts my tongue, explodes on occasion, there is nothing left on my more-than-laptop-scribe the sound percussion fingers on the keys that look for missing phrases that my more-than-scribe-Mobile has swallowed and digested and spit it in a sentence for no other like my own. My more-than-scribe-Mobile is working for me, he works to destroy my sentences, one after the other, my one sentence, the first, that I seek, first, a perfect sentence and impossible.
Two men talk, one more than the other, in fact, and also stronger, in fact, they joke and one laughs, it's a fact.
not sleep, I do not sleep, I can not even find my words at least I do not think any of those that have chosen not imagine me. By dint delete, start over and start again, erase everything, and again and again, etc.. my more-than-scribe-Mobile could die if I were him. I mean, if I was totally him, if I were an outgrowth of me, I extinguish me. I do not sleep. Neither words, I find some, sure, but no order, just words, but not the order, not available or the tone, just as words to say nothing, actually. Is that a fact? Is that the facts exist, import, are simply converted to a mobile phone and more-than-scribe-portable. Who cares? That may be a fact that all these words mean nothing, then they might want to say something in a different context, but here, here, here, right now, or before or at the time, on my more-than-scribe-mobile say? Not much actually. Is that a fact? Barely phrases whose meaning concern. Barely phrases on my more-than-scribe-portable, which could believe it? And who could believe that this is, indeed, I mean it's not something that we seek to conceal, smuggle, it is precisely this: the literature. Who would believe in a literature made from the following ingredients: just sentences on a cell phone called the opportunity for more-than-scribe-cell belonging to the author at night?
Two men talking, one more than the other, in fact, and also stronger, in fact, they joke and laugh one is a fact that speaks volumes.
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