Like a hot knife through a frozen butter
Like an aeroplane goes cutting through the air
Like an idea with new language
Like Hendrix on his broken stage
Like pretentious music in a pretentious bar
Like a jamming of green parties
Like a whore of a careless system
Like a nostalgia in empty stomach,
It comes.
You can’t rule it,
you can’t tangle it with your undisciplined soul…
If you get the touch of it then that will be your most marvelous defeat.
The barrels will get empty,
the bodies will disappear in soil
but your parched engagement in war will not let you stop it.
There…right there in those moments of faraway lunacy
it will let you spit out some words
with a pistol on your head.
Do it
Write down those bunch of letters.
You know, the more I think the more convinced I get that writing is a lot about selling yourself to the toughest fucking warden without even charging a penny.

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Photograph: Ansel Adams.