—I prefer to crack my window when I write, particularly in the winter months, in the dead of night the sounds of the city soothe me, the sounds of the city guide me down into my cellar of self reflection, exactly where I need to be in order to examine the shadowed recesses, to peer down into the hidden places where no light nor exposure exists, where all things go to remain unobserved. These are the very things I’m looking to discover, secrets, the crawling, slithering forms of the mind, this is where they live and the open window on the wall behind me helps cast light upon those forms to send them scurrying, to upset their patterns of concealment. I don’t know why or how the sounds of the city can bring me such clarity during my ritualized introspections, particularly when the city I live in the world I live in the walls I live in are bathed in violence and grotesquery, all attitudes of famine and indoctrination and injustice. Wind, insects, vehicles, midnight pedestrians, distant sirens, rain, gunshots, screams, howls, silence—all of it like some cipher upon the door to those sacred inner spaces, allowing my entry.
There is a voice in my head as I write this. The voice tells me to stop writing, to keep writing, the voice tells me to look away. Focus, the voice says. Beyond the golden arch of your soul is the tired old man, the tired old man you’ll never be, the voice says.