Grada 6

Once more in the library, it is afternoonish, she is so very used to come here and type, it is becoming slightly obsessive. The words run into each other like paint on a canvas, then again paint does not run into paint on canvas. Metaphors collapse, writing stalls. There are bulky white clouds towering over the ocean factory, she feels that writing is not what she likes to do. Does it anyways, day-in, day-out. Like hauling bricks, like fetching water. Well, not like that, writing is not needed for survival. It is just an exercise, like playing the cello, day-in, day-out. There is no reason for writing, it is just an assembling of word after word after word. There is no narrative, no story. There is the humming of the computer, there is the sizzling of the paper. Whatever that means. There is the slow motion of the trees outside in the evenly slow wind. The dullness of her existence, the stubborn rattling of seconds flowing into minutes. There is the bird above the ocean factory, flying into the mechanical constructs. There is a flag flying in the wind, there are people walking by. There is boredom, slightly halted, staccatoed by her typing, there is the red underside of the mouse, gleaming away, changing ever so slightly. There are letters on the monitor, slowly amassing, there is sentence upon sentence, words chasing each other. There is total incoherence, so it seems, so it seems. Shoddy writing, ugliness, disjunction. There is a raspy noise in the back, there is the printer surfing away. It is 2:38, still may 13, still 2009. The page is not yet finished, which is kind of annoying. Whoever chose to make lettersized paper, 8 and a half by eleven, how many words can be put on that to make for the perfect prose. Her writing is @ the mercy of the size of the page, which seems to stall. Slowly the end is near, which sounds like a grave statement, profound, earnest. Deepish. There is something wrong with this software. There always is.