NEW WRITING:

He weighed little if nothing, in the reality of things. The city dreamt and the field lay silent. His bed was made, and his shoes stood in rows. He sat and tried not to think. The bowl was before him on the bare table, and the spoon lay as glistening steel, untouched beside it. He didn't listen and he didn't murmur - but voices are cunning, voices are tenacious. They wind and they loop. They roll out white lines between poetry. They stitch together rugged moments within alcohol. They tell you that you are superman - but without the cape. They tell you that you are pointless - and everyone knows it. They tell you - they just tell you. And you listen, and you act, and you do, and you don't. It's the way.