What good is it if I can't be honest.
That's not a question.
The typed up posts hovering on the edge in Blogger that I may not even dare push 'send' on, because they will startle (dear reader).
So I sit, again, pent up with words-and-my-truth in a Cape Town coffee shop processing my travels-thoughts-desires-fears-truths to Grahamstown and back, then straight afterwards to Johannesburg and back. To New Street and back, To hell and back.
Gutsless I am.
This is Charles Bukowski stuff.
This is Hunter S. Thompson stuff.
I shall never 'succeed' as writer as long as I censor myself.
Succeed is in inverted commas because I don't give a fuck about succeed in a worldly sense (I'm in the world but, unarrogantly, I'm not of it).
New Street becomes Prince Alfred Street; along that jugular have I slid the razor blade of my life.
I'm in a week of bleakness; my heart desires to burst and splatter from my chest cage; my jaw muscles are swolen hamster-like with stress-and-pressure.
It's a beautiful day, most un-Springlike.
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