I still have a job--for now. I am the last of the my boss's assistants--which means I'll be next to be swept out into the street if we lose any more business. Until then, I'll see if I can pick up some overtime, as my boss and I take over my departing co-worker's duties. I don't enjoy job searches. There are few jobs out there that appeal to my psychology. This office has spoiled me, allowing me to remain too long within my comfort parameters. The brighter side is that I have enough money set aside that I could coast for a while and keep myself hidden away in secret motel, great black plumes billowing from the smokestacks of my poem factory.

I've accelerated my submission schedule, releasing a new bundle of car wrecks, or an airline disaster, every three weeks. Another goal for this year is to produce a first-draft of a new airline disaster every month. January saw the reduction of the disturbance novel into a forty-nine page third-draft. I un-novelized it, which is fine as it was a piece of shit anyway. That will count as "new airline disaster #1." Number 2 is outlined and ready to be beaten into existence before the end of February. Sarah will be a lovely guest in this disaster. She will figure prominently in the next disturbance novel, which I may begin playing with this summer.

I miss Sarah. But I don't want to see her again or receive letters from her. Maybe then I will gradually stop missing her. I love distance--so long as it is far removed. I see people, from time to time, that I used to know--and they remind of the great distance that has opened between what I am and what is human. And it kills me, because I keep speeding further away. I'm fine with being inhuman, just so long as there aren't any humans here to remind me what I am (and what I'm not).

The car wrecks are a comfort. They are formed in the language of something alien but still grasping for handfuls of existence--something with enough life in it to recognize it's own need for language, an interpretive reality. And the airline disaster is a convenient exercise in interior landscaping, invisible architecture. And the disturbance novel should be a portal of endless disappearing. It's my opportunity to walk with some entity like Sarah and not ruin it. Because I ruin everything that occurs outside my skin. Every creation should be a game. Just as all destruction should be a game. Imagine living life as if it were a game, a simulation with no real lasting consequences. I can get into the theory of such--but I'm way too uptight to put it into practice. Maybe that's really why I engage in the car wrecks and airline disasters, existing in great white blizzards of two-dimensional noise in a manner I lack the courage to practice right here between the cooked blue sky above us and the massive death pit under our feet. There's no real dying in between breaths--there's just this desperate twisting of light into whatever illusury vehicle necessary to deliver me into the next quiet interval.