In the dark drill holes of my heart, I believe no one will read my novel.
I think they will think less of me than I do now.
Like Elliot Smith says in his Waltz – “You’re no good, you’re no good, you’re no good, can’t you tell it’s well understood?”
When I can’t sleep the world disintegrates. The small hours squeeze my heart till it races and races, running a marathon of doubt.
I worry that every person who said I was no good was right.
I miss Elliot Smith. We saw him through the window of a coffee shop on the lower east side once. It was the coolest thing. But he’s gone in the worst way possible. Such a talent, such impossible sadness.
I feel better writing about this feeling, my heart has calmed down.