Write to organize dizziness.
Now that I have less time, the plan is to write more.
Months of research. Book after book. Articles, films, letters, and court documents. But not all of them. Stop well short of visiting the crime scene.
Fail to write impressively. Fai
(more)l to polish a product.
Circle instead--inexorably--around closer to the aim of true interest.
A full catalog of the facts is not difficult; it is impossible. The crime was committed in one way only, so what can be said until this is known?
Hover above possible sentences, drift around for six months before setting the words in stone. Pare the words down to nothing before they're even formed?
Waiting for certainty helps maintain silence.
Getting everything wrong can still count as nonfiction. Sometimes it helps when nobody reads you. It makes sense that I don't understand why I write. All the discernible reasons certainly aren't pretty.
Inexplicable interest bordering on ambitious obsession ends up at strange doorsteps. Why do I care about a murdered family from forty years ago? I read something yesterday about a societal lack of focus. Maybe more obsession is what I need. More focus, I mean. You know what I mean. No?
Who can really trust the way they read people? Lying is too easy, and it's done too well. Most of the people in this case are either deceitful or incorrect. Humans barking loudly up questionable trees.
Each idea I have is better than the last one. I think and think and think about writing half a paragraph.
Circling backwards, rotating singly through my particular chosen circuit, shocked to find the bull's eye hovering just below my feet. I can't touch it, but if I can stretch just a few more of the right sentences down to barely reach it.
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