Some things, I'm just not sure how they *become* fodder. How you get them from their natural state to a less ..odiferous composting material.
Some of my memories seem so very *narrow*. Like snapshots of a particular moment. Even..second. Stuff that I don't know if anyone else will ever care about.
So I spend a lot of time writing about things I don't really know much about but that I like to read about.
I'm really afraid that I'm just a bad to mediocre writer and a really good *reader*.
What does that say about a person if their only real talent is to consume?
I haven't had enough sleep..I'm in the craptacular writing phase again. Welcome to my nightmare, William Burroughs.
I think Bosch would have gotten along very well with Burroughs. They both had the same monstrous-insect-eating-my-head approach to life. Burroughs just got to say it later on, with more modern props.
If there's a da Vinci Code, shouldn't there be a Hieronymus Bosch Code? Something you track down in the heart of a maze at midnight, only to discover the absolute truth. The universe is a giant strawberry, being eaten by an even more giant crab.