and I wrote. At first I wrote fiction and verse; lines and wonders, even if small ones, even if broken, even if late. Then I wrote facts and methods. Facts and methods and lists. I thought it a secondary sort of writing, a second-rate sort of writing, an impoverished sort of writing.
Now I read more than write. Now I code. This is not writing. This is not better than writing. I want again to write. I need again to write. There are words. I think. Or, there may still be words. I wish to find out; I want to find out; I must needs find out.
There is little time to lose. It is not enough to read. It is not enough to
There are things that matter, and writing is one of them. Even if writing facts; even if writing methods. To write is everything. To read is nothing, invisibility, incognito, incommensurability, incapability, incapacity. To read is merely to consume, a watcher, an observer, epiphenomenal.
There is still time to write.
There is still time to write?