The novel is a house I have entered: I knew how to get in, but can I find my way out? The novel is rope to hang myself with.
The novel takes a nap, bored, while I check my email for the twentieth time.
When the novel goes out, it has my face--everyone knows what I'm thinking.
The novel is pile of post-its, a legal pad with a grease spot, a jar full of used up pens.
After the novel: there is no after.
If the novel is dead, who are the suspects?
The novel is an ache at the base of my spine, a burning in my eyes.
The novel dreams that Virginia Woolf has read it and thrown it down violently.
The novel is a part-time job, with no benefits; or if there are benefits, they are metaphysical. Note: to register for the metaphysical HMO.
The novel is a series of tea cups, crumpled chocolate wrappers, cracker crumbs sifted through the keyboard.
The novel says, “I am brilliant.”
The novel, wearing sunglasses, refuses to give an interview.
The novel is a glass of bourbon, drunk while weeping over the keyboard.
If the novel is tired, it will sleep, surrounded by thorns, for a hundred years.
The novel is a country whose language I had to invent before anyone could speak.