It's not really helping my mood to be totally off-limits from the manuscript. :( It's like half of me is somewhere else, and I can't function that well.
How bad is it? I wrote a draft based on a memory when I was 8 or 9 with Ma, where I witnessed first-hand the slaughtering of my dinner. Bloody torture of a poor chicken. That's my mood, and Bukowski's poem is no help at all, but if some man's words slip into that tiny dormant corner inside me, his book has got to be in my shelf.
I THINK OF HEMINGWAY
"... this is more than a scripture inside my brain
I am tossed along the avenues of trail and trial
like dice
the gods mouthing their fires of strength
and I
must not die,
yet.
(Excerpt from the Storm For The Living And The Dead, a poetry collection by Charles Bukowsky)
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