in which we start with roses and end with a more or less self-centered chat with myself

it's the dying roses i love. the lavender, not quite lost their color. old before their time, antique, did you know of the wisdom contained in flowers? the cactus the steady scribe. the vine, the great reductor, draws us down to base level, back to the seat of the scribe, begin again, begin again.

there's too much something in female writers, i noticed that young; i switched gravities. i say it pejoratively but no, it's not that, it's not bad it's not good it just is, whatever it is. there's a different something in dead writers too, not the same something but also not good not bad, just an existence. you find your gravity. it shapes your fingers on the pen.

does it? or doesn't? i am not male and i presume i'm not dead. debate that one later. the words that come out right now i do not choose. they just come. but what i write is right, precisely because i do not choose but what--

what if this is contrary to my gravity? how am i influenced by the great dead men whose pages i lived inside, who raised me, parents in absentia, my shapers?

am i too feminine for my own self?

that's not even a valid question, is it.

stop saying you write like a girl. the roses know. you write like you and you must write like you and that is all. fin.