In the Night Kitchen (restless stirrings)

Someday I'll write a twilight book and it will be morbid as Gorey, as predictably Gothic as Lewis and incandescent as Sendak.

And I can only hope and fear that one day, indeed, I will be ridiculous enough. Then I'll pontificate on how web structure revolves enraptured with itself into something like a Donne-ish conceit -- mirrors of meaning within a constant sphere. All created especially for me. Delicious. I shall eat my rich pastes of peanut butter and landscapes of archaic meaning and then smear them sticky-fingered over page after page, branding each with my image and trailing blue linkage into the hinterlands.